The Clover Pin
by thatwoman
Summary: Holmes and Watson are drawn into a case which deals not only with a murder in their own time, but which dredges through the circumstances of one committed some six years earlier.
1. Chapter 1

**The Clover Pin**

In the many years I spent in the presence of Sherlock Holmes, I never seemed to manage the correct divination for the quick pace of his many moods. I could sense them tolerably well, and could foresee him having a bad day or a good day by the simple way of his manner when sitting down in his favourite chair, by which pipe he chose to smoke, by which leg he crossed over the other. But I could never be positive of my observations until he decidedly ignored my presence, or raised his eyes to mine for but a momentary glance, before having one of those unfathomable smiles place itself on his lips.

His mind was forever consigned to labour, and thus much I had come to learn of him: he only ever reproached this fact when it seemed there was nothing but idleness for it to partake in. To function, he needed stokes for the fire. Whenever his thoughts seemed doomed to fade, the smoke of their eminent scattering rose in his eyes and made them look darker than the grey which ordinarily coloured them. It was then he often turned to the only abomination of his character, and the only thing which ever he did that actually caused me true harm. His addiction to the drug he claimed relieved his senses was, and is to this day, the greatest regret I carry for not having successfully cured him of.

He was my friend, and in more ways than one, my mentor, shedding a new light on the world for every moment I passed in the nearness of his person; this enigma never to be solved. To me, Sherlock Holmes stood as the greatest mystery of them all. Even now I am sometimes perplexed as to his character, but that is also one of his greatest attributes. A true puzzle waits for all time to be fully unravelled. It enlightens our lives with the eagerness of questioning, and the stillness of waiting.

**Chapter One**

I was seated in one of the chairs by the hearth, which was residence for a merrily crackling fire, spreading warmth and light in the otherwise gloomily shadowed sitting-room. Sherlock Holmes was in the chair opposite mine, his long legs pulled up in front of him, a blanket over his shoulders and his eyes staring at the dancing flames of the fireplace. They seemed set on seeing something entirely different, and though I had barely uttered a word since supper, and Holmes an even scarcer amount, I knew he did not wish me to retire.

I returned my gaze to the pages I held in my hand; the book consisting of a thin collection of short stories by one Conrad Downs. He had a most excellent grasp of the art of reiteration, and I was hoping to learn a thing or two from him. Thus an hour had passed, and thus I expected another one would, in the same quiet, when Holmes moved his head and gazed at me. I finished the sentence I had been reading and looked up at him. I must have appeared wondering, for he said:

"I find it quite curious how times are set to change, and yet always stay the same."

I blinked, unsure of how he wished me to respond. He seemed satisfied with the lowering of the book onto my lap, turning his eyes back where they had been before and pulling the blanket tighter around him.

"There has been the power of observation in men before me, and there will be in the men to come after. There will be crime and punishment, and those steps which are taken in between, as always there have been."

"I would suppose so," I granted.

"Ah," he nodded, turning his head to me once more. "Yes," he said in his slow manner, a flicker of amusement in his gaze before it was gone and he rose in one languid movement, leaving the blanket behind and stalking up to the desk where he placed himself on the chair before it.

I found myself involuntarily gritting my teeth as I observed the drawer by which he so directly had situated himself. He reached for a piece of paper and a pen.

"This cannot be ailing you, dear fellow," I tried, as he proceeded to put the pen to the paper.

"To what are you referring?" he wondered.

"I am referring to that of which you just now spoke," I replied, rising to my feet and putting the book down on the armrest of the couch as I approached him. "How times seem to run into one another. The legacies we leave behind having been the legacies we ourselves once inherited."

"My dear Watson!" he said, turning on the chair so as to observe me with the perpetually disconcerted expression he wore whenever I said something which misrepresented him. "I said I found it curious, not ominous in any way. Did I not?"

"Why..." I began, reflecting upon the disheartened look with which he had delivered his musings, but deciding to let the man speak for himself. "Yes," I finished, seeing how he smiled briefly in quick triumph before spinning back around to face his sheet and ink.

"We shan't live forever, my good man," he stated.

"It should be quite impossible," I agreed.

"What comfort should we then not derive from the knowledge of other men being born to follow in our footsteps?"

"But..."

"There," he interrupted me, punctuating whatever he had been transferring onto the white before him with great care and then standing up, folding the paper between his graceful fingers before handing it to me.

"What is this?" I asked.

"It is a note for Mrs Hudson. Would you mind slipping it under her door before you retire for the evening? I would be much obliged."

"Of course, Holmes. I shall see you to-morrow, then."

He gave a nod, walking back to the fireplace and reaching for one of his most beloved pipes.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I concluded he had no intention of turning to the needle for any sort of companionship. I could leave him in peace, and find some peace for myself in the meantime.

Just as I turned to walk up to the door there was a loud crash right behind me. Both I and Holmes ducked, but he was quicker than I in then moving across the floor toward the sound of the disturbance. One of the windowpanes of the middle window had been inconsiderably smashed. It placed his brow in deep furrows, not from wonder, but aggravation. He turned his head and scoured the floor, moving forward in a dash and picking something up. I had just straightened myself up, having observed his pattern of movement and now coming to join at his side.

It was a rock. He was unwinding the piece of paper which clung to it, rolling it out between nimble fingertips and holding it up so that he could read it.

"Well?" I asked.

"'St Paul's'," he murmured. "'Ten o'clock.' What time is it now?"

I glanced at the clock I kept in my waistcoat.

"Close to nine."

"Excellent," he said, turning his eyes in mine. "If it is not too much of an indisposition, I should like you to accompany me."

"I would be indisposed if I did not," I assured with a slight smile.

I knew perfectly the reason why he would want me there, and without further ado I went upstairs to fetch my pistol and ready it for the excursion.

I had often wondered why he, being of gentle birth, had not acquired the taste to wield a firearm. He seemed to, on most occasions, leave that aspect of our partnership to me. I felt no reservations against him using my hand, instead of his own, to protect him; and refrained from ever broaching the subject in soft fear of him turning me away from his adventures for good. The question in itself would be host to such bad taste and showcase of such low use of brainpower that it would certainly have him raise more eyebrow than one, and he would not stand for any of it being near him. This would not only deprive me, but also you, of the fantastical tales of this formidable man, and so I would not make mention of it even to secure my own breath from forever leaving my body.

The evening was damp when we stepped out into Baker Street, but the fog had not yet laid its felted appearance upon the cobbles and the sight was clear. It was refreshing to be outside, and we started our quite extensive walk in silence.

Holmes seemed divulged in a world where question marks were obliterated by his sharp eye and keen intellect. He always disappeared into a state of true purpose and unyielding determination whenever a new case was at hand. His gaze was affixed ahead, a strange and powerful light shining behind it. His dark coat and top hat worked as though designed for him alone, and his posture was self-assured in the least self-aware of ways. His set jaw, his steady walk, his clean observance of everything and nothing were parts of the things I admired greatly about him. Even when stooped in his darkest moods he had an air about him which spoke of one thing and one thing only – control. It was what made the strongest man cower in his vicinity, and what made him seem as the only real presence in whatever space he occupied.

"Have you any idea what we go to meet?" I asked.

He gave me a look as though I was quite the petulant child set on never taking in the words of his teacher, and for a moment I felt much like the cowering crook. But then the corner of his mouth quirked in a smile, his eyes once more directed ahead as he replied:

"The note was written by a woman of considerable birth, the penmanship would have been quite tolerable had it not been written in haste. The piece of paper had been ripped from the page of a newspaper, which tells us what?"

I tried to find the correct answer quickly, my mind running over the possibilities.

"She is a journalist," I offered.

"My good man," he said. "That is infernally incorrect."

"Pray tell me how to correct it," he urged him.

"The lady had read today's paper and in it she had seen something which made her feel it necessary to contact me immediately, in the cloak of night, and not in person," he said.

"But how can you know it was not she who directed the path of the stone through your window?" I inquired.

"Ah-hah!" he said, his mirth now coming out in full volume. He brought the piece of paper out and showed one of its corners to me. I have to admit to its scuffed appearance telling me nothing of the origin of his train of thought. "It has been hosted in a slingshot," he disclosed. "One belonging to a boy, Watson, and not a lady."

I gave him as impertinent a look as I could muster at his latter remark, one which he duly ignored, and watched him pocket the note once more, the dome of St Paul's coming into view and he slowed his step, as did I.

"Why did you wish me to bring my pistol, if you knew we are but to meet a lady in distress?" I asked.

"She had a good reason not to rush to my door," he replied quietly. "We may have brought whatever it is she fears, upon her."

I glanced back at from whence we had come, but the street lay in deserted stillness. The greatest lesson I had learned thus far from my dependable friend was, however, never to trust my eyes. Had we been followed, there was no way of knowing until the very pivotal moment arrived.

"Come," Holmes said, leading the way across the street and then the square, which in turn took us to the front door of the large cathedral.

Holmes reached out a hand for the door, when there was a hushed whisper to our left.

"Mr Holmes, sir," it sounded. "Please, sir, would you come this way?"

Holmes exchanged a look with me before we both left the front step, walking down the rest to the corner of the building, which seemed to be speaking to us. Huddled behind it, but rising slightly to greet us, was a small boy of no more than six years of age. He was dressed in clothes of finer quality, his face was clean and his hair cropped short. Its red colour was not hidden even in the dark which surrounded us and it did not take a lot to guess the Irish blood flowing through his veins. His face was calm, but his hands jittery and his feet seemed eager to lead us further on our way.

"We must be quiet, sir. You too, sir," he said, first to Holmes and then to me. "If you please, sir."

He brought his hand into Holmes' and proceeded pulling him with him alongside the great building. I observed the stern face of Holmes and had to keep down a chuckle. He was a friend of any child, but the touch seemed to render him quite perplexed as to what he should do with it, thus it was kept as it was and the boy was allowed to guide him with ease.

But a few minutes later we landed upon the stoop of a modest townhouse. Its gardens were well-kept, but the grandeur one is used to see in the homes of London had been left out of this particular structure. It had washed windows and a prettily laid roof, but nothing out of the ordinary to announce itself to passers by. The boy pushed open the waist-high gate and let go of Holmes' hand for running ahead on the footpath leading up to the front door. It opened the second he reached it and a pale face looked out at us. It was all that the building was not, displaying a beauty most splendid, albeit weary.

"Thank you, Matthew," its owner said with a small smile to the boy. "Thilda will put you to bed."

"But I so wished to...!" he began, stopping at the slight shake of the lady's head. "Oh, alright," he muttered in clear disappointment.

Looking up at us, as we had come to a stop behind him, he gave us a smile each and walked in through the door, which the lady now opened to a wider gap in order to allow us entrance. Holmes removed his hat the moment he stepped over the threshold, I mimicked his movement. He looked around with his normal astuteness, finally allowing his eyes to settle on the young woman, who had closed the door and stood in mute wait. At capturing his gaze she said:

"Please, won't you let me take your hat? Caroline, my maid, has the evening to herself."

She added the last bit of information as though excusing herself, but she did it with such grace that neither of us was apt to question her in any way. The only sign of Holmes having any sort of thought on the matter was his right eyebrow rising, though it was undoubtedly not detected by our hostess. He did as she asked, removing his hat and handing it and his cane to her waiting hands. She asked me to show her the same courtesy. After having put our belongings in the hall closet she then proceeded to walk passed us, inviting us to follow her into the drawing-room.

The soft lights of the few lamps lit therein gave her face a certain lustre, her large blue eyes seemed unearthly in their depths and her soft brow smoothed itself as she sunk down into an armchair, having bid us both to sit. Her dark hair was piled high on her head and her mouth wore a faint residue of artificial colour, though the rest of her face showed none. She had a fine waist and the green dress covering her slight frame was of the latest fashion, though not the most exclusive.

"I cannot apologise enough for the manner by which I have procured your coming here to-night," she finally spoke.

Holmes had seated himself with both arms splayed either way on the backrest of the couch, one leg brought to drape itself over the armrest while his face was turned toward the fine display of photographs standing on a side table. Now he smiled briefly.

"In lieu of the fact that whatever matter brought you to such an act is what secured my coming here to-night, all else is irrelevant. You have yet to give me your name."

The lady nodded.

"Miss Amelia Livingston."

I noted the barely present shift in Holmes' eyes, his watchful gaze growing ever more intimate as it rested upon Miss Livingston's face. She did not look away, but there was an equal cause of effect as she said:

"Of course, that is not my real name."

"Of course it is nothing of the sort," Holmes agreed, still waiting for her to elaborate.

I looked from one to the other, jotting down words in the little notebook I had retrieved, something which the lady seemed either not to be aware of, or care about, until this very moment. She turned her eyes on me.

"Sir," she said.

"Doctor," Holmes corrected, her face turning questioning. "This is my good friend and colleague _Doctor_ Watson."

"Certainly," she said. "I beg your pardon," she added with her eyes once more in mine.

"Not at all, I'm sure," I replied, whereupon I received another of her small smiles.

"If you do not mind, Doctor, I would prefer it if my name did not figure in this particular part of your story."

"You know I am in the habit of producing such work?" I asked.

"I am quite aware, as one of them led me to seek Mr Holmes' help. I am sorry I had not taken due note of your title, but I did quite like your words," she said, making me feel rather at ease with the whole matter.

"I thank you," I said earnestly, seeing Holmes rolling his eyes and deciding it was his turn to be ignored. "I shall create a pseudonym for you, rest assured," I added. "And will deter from writing anything down which might vex you."

"Then it is I who give thanks," she replied with a little bow of the head, which was most charming indeed.

Her back straightened and her hands placed themselves on her lap as she looked from me, to Holmes.

"My name," she finally began her story, "is Amélie Woodsworth."

I recognised the name instantly, the family Woodsworth being linked to the higher ranks of the royal court by blood; but I also knew the name from a far back memory I could not entirely place. It had nothing to do with a former case, of that I was certain; I never forgot something as personal as that.

Holmes was, however, not at all surprised, and seemed quite satisfied with continuing his listening. I was already intrigued as it was, but the question of what a noble woman was doing in such circumstances as these, living quite alone with a child, piqued my interest and I prayed, I am not ashamed to say it, that Holmes would allow her to proceed uninterrupted. I could not help but smile to myself at this quite blasphemous thought, and the one of what reaction would have been bestowed upon me, had he heard it.

"I grew up not far from London, on the countryside. I had a happy childhood, sheltered and nourished, every fancy was mine. All the things a young girl was supposed to learn, I learned with ease and through joy, for I loved pleasing my parents." She saw the slight smile playing on Holmes' lips, and smiled as well. "It's quite true," she assured. "My mother is French. She met my father when she was not yet eighteen, visiting England on vacation with her family, and fell instantly in love. The name I carry was my great-grandmother's, on her side of the family, and I've treasured it."

"Until," Holmes interjected, "you were forced to change it."

She looked down at her hands, hesitating.

"I apologise, I haven't offered you anything to drink. Mr Holmes?" He shook his head, and when she turned her eyes on me, I did the same. She looked for a second imploring, but then she clearly grasped hold of herself. "This business is quite tender," she said silently. "You must forgive it for not coming out quite as effortlessly as I would like it to."

"We are in no hurry, eh, Watson?" Holmes said, in no manner acknowledging me, though he used my name so freely, a characteristic of his which passed perfectly forgiven by me.

"Quite right," I agreed.

She was grateful, but it took her another minute to collect her thoughts.

"I met a man – on my twentieth birthday – who was everything I had ever hoped for and who said I was everything he could ever need. He courted me, and though I knew it to be against my parents will, I let him. For nearly a year he stayed close, taking every opportunity which presented itself to meet me. I fell in love, quite deeply so, and I knew it to be the same for him, and... Though we were not married..."

She trailed off, and by the light blush and the aversion of her eyes I could deduce the ending of the sentence quite perfectly for myself. Holmes was eyeing her unperturbed.

"You then found out you were with child," he said.

She nodded, looking up at both of us once again.

"I was going to tell Ian. The only one who knew of the situation was my maid. It was she who made the remark, ascertaining my knowledge of what I was suffering, for I thought I was ill. I had managed to keep the morning sickness from my parents since I, at first, believed it to have something to do with... with the act itself."

She flushed again, and I felt pity for her.

"But you did not get to tell Ian," Holmes pushed her on.

"No," she said, her eyes filling with a shimmering layer of tears. "A terrible crime made it impossible." Her hands were wrought together in her lap, most distraughtly. "A stable boy was found murdered in the woods of our property. Ian had come that afternoon to speak privately with my father, asking for my hand in marriage. I had not known he had planned to do so, or I would have insisted on speaking with him first, so that we could have faced my parents together. As it happened, my father refused him. Ian was not good enough for me; though being a gentleman, he was not rich, and I already had many suitors who were in much better situations. Ian spoke with me very briefly, telling me of the result and assuring me he would not give up. I did not get a chance to speak with him privately, and when I pleaded with my father, telling him of my love, he was shocked and outraged that he had known nothing of it. My wishes were disregarded in the matter, and though I love my father, and he always has been kind in every other regard, for this I cannot forgive him."

She stopped, her breath quivering with emotion.

As soon as she began telling of the death of the stable boy I had remembered reading of it many years ago. It had not been as exploited by the papers as some murders were, perhaps due to its swift conclusion.

"Ian was apprehended the next morning by the police," Miss Amélie said, as though finishing my thought for me, "for there had been a witness who placed him on the grounds at the time of the murder."

"Which occurred later that same evening," Holmes said. She nodded. "Did Mr Cavanaugh return to see you?"

She stared at Holmes, quite speechless until she said:

"How did you know his last name?"

"It was not until you spoke yours that I began to put the pieces together," he replied with a small smile. "But pray, answer my question."

"No, he did not come to see me. Or, if he did, I knew naught of it. I was not well."

"I see," he said, sympathy seeping into his features.

"The police said the crime to be a vengeful act against our family."

"Witness, motive, and yet he did not hang," Holmes remarked.

"No," she said. "He did not. His family paid for the very best solicitors to fight for their son's life, and they won. I am thankful for that. But he has been in prison for..."

"Seven years, yes," Holmes filled in, rising to his feet with something not very far from a jump and walking up to the tray holding a collection of crystal carafes. "Now, let me narrate the events which followed his inclosing. You realised, quite shortly thereafter, that you were pregnant. You knew there could only be one father, and seeing no other salvation, you confessed to your parents."

"Yes," she agreed.

"And did they suggest you give away the baby?"

"No," she shook her head. "I don't believe they even thought it. And had they made such a suggestion, I would not have conceded. I wanted that child more than anything."

"And so they sent you here, under the condition that you changed your name and withdrew from society."

"I didn't mind," she said.

"I know you did not," Holmes replied with a slight smile, replacing the top of the carafe he had been pouring from, bringing the small glass of brandy to Miss Woodsworth, handing it to her and going down on one knee next to her chair, gazing up at her.

She brought the liquid to her lips and drank a mouthful before she turned her eyes in Holmes'. She did not seem bemused by his close proximity, but rather comforted; as though she had been afraid of our branding her with the scarlet letter.

"Did you try to get hold of Mr Cavanaugh?"

"I sent him a note," she answered. "He wrote me back, a very short reply, saying he was ashamed of what he had brought upon me and that he didn't wish for his child to see him in that wretched place. He begged me to forget him."

"You could not," Holmes said, voice soft.

"No," she answered him. "I could not."

"But," I said, putting my pen down, "why did you send for us?"

"Ah," Holmes said with a look at me, rising with ease and standing to look down at the lady. "A few weeks back I read that Ian Cavanaugh had been released from prison. There was also related the gruesome business which had put him there. His involvement was never fully proved, was it, Miss Woodsworth?"

"No, but circumstances were what brought him inside those four walls, and I believe, had he not known me, he would never have happened upon them."

"You cannot blame yourself for what transgressed," I ventured to comfort.

"But I do," she said. "And this is why I ask your involvement now."

"To reopen the case?" I queried.

"No, Watson," Holmes replied, the slight impatience in his tone unmistaken.

Moving across the room he snatched a newspaper from its resting place on a spindly table, unfolding the front page of it with the flick of one wrist, quite near the tip of my nose, and then placing it before me.

I furrowed my brow as I read the heading of one of the articles. Soon enough I noted the torn corner on the upper right-hand side of the page. Holmes tapped the article I had just skimmed with one finger, turning back to Miss Woodsworth with the most regal of airs, the sincerity of his posture telling me that he now considered us inexorably involved in this case.

"There has been another murder," he spoke and the lady closed her eyes.

"Frederick Harrington," I read, frowning. "The witness," I then added as I placed the name, Holmes showing his approval with a nod.

"It was not Ian who committed these crimes," the lady said, voice now steady as she met Holmes' gaze; which was literally blazing with the prospect of a challenge.

"But you fear this is not what the police will think," I said.

"When do the police ever think?" Holmes remarked with marked punctuation before turning his attentions back to the lady. "Have you been visited by Mr Cavanaugh since his release?" She shook her head. "Have you received any form of communication from him?" She shook her head again. "Answer me now," Holmes said, his voice quite urgent, "are you sure you believe in his innocence?"

"I am convinced of it," she replied.

"Then we shall start from there," Holmes stated, heading for the door of the room. "Come along, Watson, no time to dawdle."

I collected my pen and notebook, giving Miss Woodsworth a rather apologetic smile as she had risen to walk us out.

Hello friends!

I have posted on this site before, but only BtVS fanfiction. A few years ago I had an encounter with Jeremy Brett playing the aimiable Sherlock Holmes and it was his interpretation of the character that I based this short story on. There are four more chapters to go and I would LOVE to hear from any Sherlockians out there!

Please let me know what you think!

x's

Annie.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

The following morning I was woken by Holmes, who was hovering over me. Rather expectantly he eyed me and once I was quizzically gazing up at him, he gave a nod.

"Good man," he commended. "You have precisely six minutes to get yourself ready."

"I thank you for that," I muttered, wishing I could simply pull my covers over my head and that would be the end of it.

"You're quite welcome, Watson!" he replied, in much too cheerful a voice, walking up to the door. "Clock is ticking," he added, knocking the silver handle of his cane against my doorframe before disappearing.

I should like to say I was ever the considerate friend he thought me, but times such as these I had the overwhelming need to rap something heavy against his head. It passed, as all moments such as it did when it came to Sherlock Holmes. He was quite impossible to stay mad at.

Placed comfortably in the seat of the cab as I joined him, his eyes turned in mine with the greatest of content. He was in his element, and joined with it he became an unstoppable force.

I so regret that I cannot give you a description of Sherlock Holmes that could ever portray the man in his natural light. I can give you words, but the words without pictures, without movement and sound, are – I'm sad to divulge – weighted down by surrealism. You shall never fully see him the way I have seen him. His grace, his quick, attentive way, his charm and eccentricity, the actuality of the person that is Sherlock Holmes is lost to you, for imagination cannot do him justice.

Yet I write; to preserve him and to relive him, with you.

"Rather fine morning," I said, sitting down beside him.

The horse began to move along Baker Street, letting the familiar begin to give in to the unknown and whatever new mystery we were about to uncover.

"Hah!" he exclaimed. "Yes, I suppose it is," he added.

I watched his profile, searching it and finally deciding to pose my question.

"Do you have faith in Miss Woodsworth's accounts?"

He glanced at me.

"I have faith in facts, and at this moment we are poorly lacking anything conclusive, wouldn't you agree?"

"I would."

"We shall see what comes of it once we reach Briary."

"What time does the train leave?"

"Eight sharp."

"I had no time to have breakfast," I said, receiving another glance at the accusation in my voice.

"They will surely serve something on the train," he commented, raising his chin a little.

"Surely," I grumbled, though it was in good-humour as I would not have missed this for all of Mrs Hudson's most crisply fried bacon.

**S**

Briary was a small cottage village, eighteen miles east of London, a train ride to be followed by a nice coach ride out of the city; and further a twenty minute carriage drive from Ashley House, the seat which had been held by the line of Woodsworth since the times of Robin the Hood.

We secured a room at The Beech, a small, but quaint, Inn.

"Where do we start?" I asked as we had put our suitcases away and walked downstairs.

Holmes pushed open the door leading into the room serving as the dining and social quarters of the place; holding it open for me, the gesture was enough to make me understand his point. The room was filled with locals, if ever there was anything to find out, we should be able to find it out here.

Holmes had traded his top hat and black coat for a dark suit. The weather was becoming increasingly better, and summer was approaching. He strode across the room to the bar. I followed, looking around and considering the townspeople to look both wholesome and honest.

Joining at Holmes' side I heard him introduce himself and then myself in his usual manner, putting a hand on my shoulder to emphasise, leaning against me slightly he said in a subdued tone:

"Choose any table and get yourself into the conversation."

He laughed at something the barkeep said, giving me a slight push as encouragement. I was not convinced I was any good at this particular part of our occupation. Feeling at ease with complete strangers, while trying to pry into their history undetected, was not something which came naturally to me. But I did not wish to disappoint Holmes and so, as soon as I sighted an empty seat, I left his side and headed in that direction.

"Pardon my intrusion," I said, but I only received welcoming smiles and upon their encouragement I sat down amidst a group of four men and one woman.

They had all reached at least middle age, the men had grey sprouting through their otherwise darkened and weatherworn hair. Their faces were red and puffy, but friendly. One was smoking a pipe. The woman was the first to speak directly to me as she asked:

"So you be the townsfolk, eh?"

"Something of the sort," I replied.

She smirked.

"You be here for the killings, then?" one of the men wondered. "Angus Black," he added, taking my hand in a hearty shake.

"Doctor John Watson," I introduced myself.

"Doctor?" the woman repeated, sounding impressed. "And who's he?"

I looked over at Holmes, smiling as I replied:

"That is my good friend and colleague, Mr Sherlock Holmes."

"You're here for the killings, ain't you?" the fellow to my left asked. He had black hair and small eyes and was the only one who didn't seem as hospitable as the rest. "I wonder what you think you'll find that the police haven't. They may be country boys, but they're sharp, or they wouldn't be the police, I reckon."

"I most certainly agree," I lied, having been witness to too many blunt mistakes by the police in the past to hold much confidence in their skills.

Holmes had coloured me in that regard as well, I suppose.

"So what do you know?" Mr Black inquired. "About the killings, I mean."

I realised I knew very little, and told him so. The first boy to have been killed, seven years ago, had been thirteen years of age. The young man they had found a few days earlier had been one-and-twenty. Both of the murders had been described as gruesome, but then I knew the newspapers rather enjoyed putting such words into use without their necessity having been established. The bodies had both been found on the grounds of Ashley House, their spots of recovery not positioned far from one another.

"There ain't much more to tell on the matter," the woman said, showing tobacco stained teeth in a smile as she shrugged. "We all know who done it."

I raised my eyebrows.

"That Irish boy," she said, making a face of disgust. "I have nothing against the Irish, mind you," she added. "But they're a violent breed. Had me a man who had Irish blood in him. Used to knock me about."

I furrowed my brow.

"Why do you believe Ian Cavanaugh should be the one to have done the deed? He has, after all, been in prison for a very long time, and was _released_, point of fact. Should that not speak for his placid temperament?"

"He came back here and couldn't find the girl he was looking for," the woman stated, the men, all but the inhospitable fellow, lowering their heads in clearly agreeing nods. "He was so angry he went mad."

"That ain't it," the black haired man stated. "You know it ain't it," he added, glaring at all of them before he turned his eyes on me. "All that's been written, and I'd still bet my arm that you didn't know about the legend," the fellow remarked.

"Legend?" I asked, my ears perking considerably.

"Oh, hush, Terry," the woman said, shaking her head with a laugh.

"It's true, I'm telling you! I've seen her dancing!" he exclaimed, the other's growing quiet. "They didn't print nothing of it in them fancy newspapers. People want blood, not tales. But as true as I'm telling you, I've seen her."

"Her?"

"The witch of Coveted forest," Terry said, voice dropping so low it was difficult to hear him. "I've seen her dancing."

**S**

Holmes laughed quite heartily when I told him what I had found out. His eyes glittered with undiluted mirth as he watched me for a moment, but within an instant he had grown serious.

"No," he said. "There are no darker forces at work here than those of man."

"I suppose those are dark enough."

"Indeed."

Though the subject was dropped at that; a smile still made itself known on his finely shaped mouth, and I did so wish it would go away, it made me feel quite inadequate in the arts he so patiently had set out to share with me.

"And your conversation with the barkeep, did it produce anything of use?"

"It would seem gossip has been prevented from seeping through the gates of Ashley House," he replied. "We shall go there."

"Unannounced?" I asked as he stood from his chair in our shared accommodations, grabbing his suit jacket and turning to me as he put it on. "Holmes!" I said as he then proceeded through the door without further reply.

I rose and followed him. He truly was the most stubborn of individuals I had ever encountered, you must understand. His will guided him like a torch might the woodsman at night, and though it sometimes blinded him into what I took as near folly, I never once saw him pause for direction or contemplation and very rarely even for afterthought. His path was set, and he set to follow it. I could do nothing but walk in his footsteps as my path was so clearly laid out along his.

"Holmes!" I repeated as we breached the town line and was greeted by softly swaying fields of wheat.

The sky was blue and displayed the rays of the sun as something extraordinary. It was a perfectly lovely day for late May, and a stroll would have done us both good, but I was not up for traipsing upon a country road, leading to nothing but an awkward encounter with an aristocracy not taking lightly on deplorable manners.

"You fret, Watson?" he finally spoke, looking truly surprised, his hands in the pockets of his trousers. "You think so little of me as to believe I should not have sent a note on ahead?"

I stared at him. He gave me a sideways glance, smirking self-satisfactorily. Then he laughed, and I joined him.

"You must not tease an old friend," I reproached.

He merely smiled.

"I believe we are headed into the lion's den," he said, looking at me briefly.

**S**

We were shown into a large drawing-room; its high French windows open to the vast stretch of lawn beyond the house. The walls were furbished with light blue silk, carrying a remarkable pattern in gold print. The furniture was white and the whole room filled with a cleanliness which spoke to ease my mind. It seemed much less of a den in such finery.

Holmes walked about, one arm at the small of his back, coming to a halt before a petite glass display case, holding what I supposed to be miniature paintings. He waved me over and I stood beside him, gazing down at the face of a very young Miss Amélie. I leaned forward, putting my head next to Holmes'.

"She was quite a beauty, even then," I murmured, sensing Holmes' eyes on me for but a moment before he turned them away and straightened his back.

We both turned around when the butler came back into the room, announcing the immediate presence of Lord Woodsworth.

The lord entered, showing a tall man of regular build. His face was handsome, and though age had lined it with small wrinkles around the eyes and mouth it seemed it gave it more character. He was a gentleman, and his title practically shone around him when he moved. Good upbringing is something one is born with, not into, and the man before us was clearly of standard.

"Gentlemen," the lord said; walking past his servant to come and greet us. "Mr Sherlock Holmes," he added, extending a hand which was seized after a moment's hesitation on Holmes' part. "I was surprised at hearing your name uttered in these parts; especially in conjunction with my butler informing me the namesake wished an audience with me."

"Perhaps you would not be so surprised when considering the tragedy having befallen you," Holmes replied with a meaningful arch of one eyebrow.

The lord had taken my hand as well, his grip firm and self-assured, Holmes' remark leaving him unfazed as he let go of his hold, his eyes in my colleague's.

"I was under the impression a private detective is sent for, and not prone to showing up at your doorstep of his own accord," the lord retorted.

"_Consulting_ detective," I corrected.

"Why, yes, of course," the lord smiled. "Won't you sit down?"

We did, Holmes in a chair, I on the couch opposite the lord, who sat in a chair as well.

"Our showing up was not entirely voluntary," Holmes stated. "Last night we had a summons to see your daughter."

Lord Woodsworth looked perplexed for a moment, and then he slowly sat back in his chair.

"Amy?" he asked and Holmes nodded slowly.

"She was adamant about what she wished from us," he continued, "that the name of Ian Cavanaugh should be clear of any stain. What do you think of that?"

His voice was lilting, calm and yet as intrusive as if he had been shouting the words, I could see it on the lord's face.

"I should like to say I am surprised, but I have feared she would get herself involved in the matter."

"The father of her child is being persecuted, I should think she has a right to involve herself any which way she pleases," Holmes remarked.

"You have no children, Mr Holmes," the lord replied, curtly. "And until you do I bid you stay silent about the business of mine."

"The business of yours was revealed to me by her own tongue," Holmes said, as tartly. I was becoming rather anxious. "I could not very well demand her silence as freely as you have mine, when she sent for me in distress."

"What are your business _here_, then, sir?" the lord asked.

Holmes blinked, casting a quick eye my way.

"Did I not just make it, as I was under impression, perfectly clear?" he inquired. "We are to find the actual murderer. For I presume you do not think the deaths were accidents."

"The police..."

"We are _not_ the police, and thus I pray you keep them out of it altogether," Holmes stopped him, cutting the edge of his words off with a smile, which only lingered a moment before his countenance bore the intensity of his next question. "Do you wish this unfortunate affair solved?"

The lord observed him for a long moment, glanced at me, and then replied:

"I do, sir."

"Excellent!" Holmes exclaimed. "Your cooperation shall simplify matters immensely."

I smirked at the comment, unable to hold it back.

"What do you wish to know?" the lord inquired.

Holmes pulled his legs up, crossing them under him with ease and leaning forward slightly before he asked:

"Were the murders linked?"

"They were almost identically executed," the lord answered.

"What differed?"

"The location of the bodies, the age of the... victims."

Holmes nodded.

"How were they killed?"

"By beating," the lord said, his face beginning to pale considerably. "I am sorry," he said, bringing a handkerchief to his forehead as it had begun to pearl with sweat. "I had known both Jonas and Frederick since they were very young. It is a personal loss, even though one of the boys was taken so many years ago, and to speak of it as something clinical is difficult for me, not to mention my family. We have been forced to do so with the police on numerous occasions and I..."

Holmes hushed him quietly, sitting up and meeting my gaze again. We rose at the same time.

"Excuse us," I said as Holmes walked up to one of the open windows, disappearing through it. "Well?" I asked as I joined him. He gave me a questioning glance. "Something must be on your mind," I added.

"I thought he should have a moment alone," Holmes replied, watching the landscape before us. "And," he added, pointing one finger markedly at two forms walking in the distance; one clearly female, the other distinctively male, but that was also all one could make out.

"What about them?" I asked.

He smiled.

"Very good question," he said. "Very good question indeed, my _dear_ Watson."

With that he more or less leaped back in through the window and I shook my head ever so slightly before once more following him.

The scene had changed a dash as Lord Woodsworth was no longer alone in the room. He was speaking with a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Miss Amélie; having the same dark hair, and the same blue eyes, but being of a taller stature; and with the youth of her face having been replaced by years of true experience.

They were standing, and both turned to Holmes as he stopped before them.

"Lady Woodsworth," he greeted with a flourish of a bow. "Delighted," he added with one of his most disarming smiles.

"Please, call me Isabel," she returned his smile warmly, her voice carrying but a trace of a French accent.

He gave her a very appreciative look, one not often used by Holmes in any instance, and I came to the conclusion that his first impression of the lady had been a pleasing one.

"This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson," he offered.

"Milady," I bowed my head, bringing my lips to the hand she extended to me.

"Doctor," she said with a smile as I straightened my back and let her hand go. She turned her eyes on my comrade. "I am so very happy you have come, Mr Holmes," she said. "I want nothing more than to put these horrible times behind us."

"And so you shall," he assured.

"I must insist you stay with us," she continued. I picked up on the rather set face of the lord and got the pressing notion that he did not agree. "The Beech is a fine establishment." At this I turned my eyes on Holmes, who bore the expression of clear agreement, though I detected the hint of irony behind it. "But if you are to help, I believe you would be more comfortable here."

"Splendid!" Holmes said. "However, we shall stay the night in town as we have paid the innkeeper for his services."

The lady looked as though wanting to protest, but then she smiled again.

"Certainly," she said.

"Now, I wish to see the sights of both killings," he stated.

"But of course," the lord said, a tad stiffly. "I shall take you out there myself."

Holmes granted Lady Isabel another smile before walking with the lord to the door of the drawing-room.

"I beg your pardon," I said as the lady accompanied me the same way her husband had lead Holmes, "but we were admiring the small portraits and I grew curious to know whose faces were depicted apart from that of your eldest daughter."

Lady Isabel had a gentle stroke of grief on her face, but it vanished and she replaced it with a smile. It lighted her face and I decided she was a very beautiful woman; something which time would never be able to take away from any seeking eye falling upon her features.

"I assume you are referring in particular to the young man and woman who are set closest to the portrait of Amélie?" she asked, her pronunciation of the last word ringing out in clear French. I gave a nod as reply. "The man is Amélie's brother, the woman is her sister. They are both younger than Amélie. Luc is two-and-twenty; Josephine recently celebrated her seventeenth birthday. Did Amélie not speak of them to you?"

"No," I replied.

"Watson!" Holmes called and I bowed slightly to the lady.

Walking out through the front door of the house I saw Holmes and the lord striding across the lawn. Holmes waved a hand for me to hurry. I followed the instruction to the letter as I did not wish to be left behind. I knew something was moving behind his smooth brow, but I could not tell what. I hoped he would divulge it on our walk back to Briary.

The first sight contained nothing of interest, apart from the lord showing Holmes precisely where the body had been discovered and describing in what condition it had been. I would not go into details, lest to say the body they had found had been barely recognisable. The deed of a madman or a sadist, the lord observed.

The second sight had fresher marks, but of course the blundering police force had shattered most of the evidence we might have found. Holmes had been expecting this, his eyes taking in the ground with an edged stare; he walked around the spot slowly.

The particular part of forest would have been charming, had it not been the setting for such a terrible act of violence. The trunks of the trees stood at fairly large intervals, making the sunshine sift through their branches to splatter light across the foliage covering the ground. Fallen trunks were scarce, but here and there they formed natures little bench for the wanderer. The air was heavier beneath the trees, but it was also sweeter from the scent of the leaves both above and below; a husky, strangely electric smell which spoke of time standing still.

Suddenly Holmes was on his knees, his fingers slowly putting aside the litter of old flora, his eyes widening in victory. He smiled to himself, his fingertips grasping something before he stood, the knees of his pants being wet and dirty was something not concerning him as he held up his prize.

"Extraordinary," the lord breathed.

Holmes eyed the small pin he had uncovered, placing it in the palm of his hand and extending it to the lord.

"Do you recognise this item?" he asked.

"It belonged to Frederick," the lord answered. "My wife and I gave it to him on his fifteenth birthday."

Holmes pocketed the pin with an artful snaking of the wrist and then turned to me.

"Shall we?" he asked. I stared after him when he began to walk, and as it eluded me to follow him he stopped and turned back to me. "I would like to be back in the village before supper," he snapped and I came out of my reverie. "Lord Woodsworth!" he added with a waving of the hand, which looked something awful like a dismissal, as he began to stroll across the lawn.

"What time should we expect you to-morrow?" the lord asked me.

"It is not for me to decide," I replied, knowing that Holmes would have had something else to say to that.

"Noon," the lord said. "We shall have tea prepared."

"Jolly good," I smiled, taking my leave and catching up with Holmes halfway across the lawn. "We are to have tea here on the morrow," I said.

"Jolly good," he said, the corner's of his mouth turning up in a quick smile.

**Thank you ever so much for the thoughts! KCS and instant dragon, it was very nice to hear from you and even more so, to hear you approve! :) Yeah, sorry about the text being all the same style, I didn't notice that it had deleted the line I put in to separate the A/N from the story until now! Thanks for the tip though - bold it is. Guess things have changed around here since I posted last. So, here was chapter two and I hope you're still enjoying it!**

**A.M.L,**

**Annie.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

He did not speak at all on our walk home, and I could tell his mind was focused on the small set of details he had thus far collected. He was lining them up, turning them around and around, changing their place, mixing them only to start the process over again. The splendour of the English countryside could not be more meaningless to him now. Nor could I, I did understand this. In moments of the cool processing, which now churned through his thoughts, all he needed was him. I wondered if there ever would come a day when I could properly reconcile with this fact.

We ordered supper, and while I ate two plates of some of the best homemade pie I had ever tasted, on top of a full meal of potatoes and venison stew, Holmes was content with pinning his gaze on one spot on the wall to the left side of my head, not touching his food and lighting a cigarette as soon as the maid departed from the room. The snap he created by shutting the lid of his silver cigarette case was all the noise he made for another twenty minutes.

I rose from the table once it had been cleared, walking up to the only small window of the room and glancing down upon the yard of the Inn. It was in terrible shape, for it had rained just after Holmes and I had returned, and the paths all now consisted of mud. I watched as a maid struggled with a basket in her arms, headed for the stables.

"Have you contemplated the case, Watson?" Holmes' voice rang out behind me.

"I have, old chap," I replied, turning where I stood to meet his gaze.

He seemed fondly amused and fairly interested as he waited for me to continue.

"But I have yet to see the facts," I admitted, his right eyebrow lifting ever so slightly.

"Be so kind then, as to tell me of the players. Have you them before you?"

I thought it over.

"There is the family," I said, putting one hand out, palm up. "There are the villagers," I added, doing the same gesture with my other hand.

"And one more set," he reminded.

"The servants."

He granted me a smile, rising to his feet and beginning to pace around the room.

"Motive, motive," he said quietly. "It is the most elusive part to any conundrum. Jealousy, hatred, greed, love; but the scenario in which we are to address them is not yet given."

"You have thoughts on the subject, then?"

"Thoughts are easily bent and influenced," he replied simply. "But lady Amélie figures as the central building block for this tragedy, and answers are to be found at Ashley House."

He brought out the pin and slowly held it up to the light. It was thin and small, made of what I could only assume to be silver, straight in design, with a clover affixed on top.

**H**

I was woken by a noise undistinguished, but for the conviction that it was no part of my dreams. I opened my eyes, feeling sleep insistently lingering behind the lids, and as I tried to free myself from the sluggishness confounding me, I came to the understanding that an unwonted presence was sharing the room. I heard the rustle of paper; I heard the stealth of steps making their way from Holmes' side of the compartment, to mine. It was not many steps to take, for the room was timid in size, but it was far enough to keep me from reaching my pistol in any time that would take the intruder off guard. I lay in indecision for but another second, and then I sat up.

"Holmes!" I said in order to rouse my companion, my eyes on the shape bent over my suitcase.

At the sound of my voice the bending figure straightened itself, turned a quick eye my way, and then dashed for the door.

"Holmes!" I repeated, throwing my covers off.

I saw no time to lose, and set after the trespasser down the stairs, but upon reaching the front door of the establishment, which was still swinging on its hinges, I was met by no more gratification than that of the emptiness of night. I returned to the room to find Holmes still soundly asleep. I found it ironic that he should be so consigned to rest this one time when I should have needed him sprite on his feet.

"For God's sake, man!" I exclaimed, shaking him awake.

He looked utterly perplexed, and the youngest I believe I have ever seen him, as he met my gaze - disoriented and uncomprehending.

"There was someone here," I said as he sat up.

He eyed me for a moment, soberly.

"Was anything taken?"

"I have yet to check."

He looked about the room, then back at me.

"Did you catch sight of anything with which to describe the interloper?"

"Male of build, quite tall, robust, and fast on his feet," I answered, Holmes gaze gleaming with awoken interest.

"Did you give chase?" he inquired.

"I followed the scoundrel as far as the front door, but beyond that point his trail vanished," I replied, having a seat on the edge of my bed.

"I would imagine it quite an aggravating business," he said.

I gave him one of my more disliking frowns before getting the covers over me and lying down. I was in no mood for his particular sense of humour and as I could see he was wearing a slight smile I opted to pay him no further attention.

"As a matter of fact it was," I replied against all better judgement.

He laughed, a short bark, which was one I was quite familiar with at this point in time, but which sound still managed to surprise me with its origin seeming to come from the very centre of him, its undertones always the most good-natured, even instances such as this. It was so clear to me that he knew something he had not told me, and it truly set a strain on my nerves as it now affected not only him, but also me. That he did not get up to search his belongings was a clear sign and I was just about to part my lips to voice my observation when I turned my head to him and saw what he held between two fingers.

It was, of course, the pin, and by the look on his face I understood that he saw the intrusion of to-night as no less than a triumph. He granted me a smile before closing his fingers around this now stated vital piece of evidence, shutting his eyes.

I watched him in the silence, wondering if anything could ever bring him out of balance, or if everything was indeed pieces of the puzzles he was continuously putting into place.

**H**

"He came in through that window," Holmes stated the following morning.

I had no idea how long he had been up, but as his sleeping habits followed not that of the more ordinary of men, I shouldn't say it was so very astounding that he was the one to declare breakfast was soon to be expected. He was dressed and combed, impeccable as always. I wrapped myself in my robe and got off the bed, watching as he pointed at the mud-tracks made by the intruder.

"We are two floors up," I said, sounding quite as amazed as I felt at the sheer acrobatic endeavour this feat must have required.

"I believe we can add 'limber' to your list of attributes," Holmes smirked.

I shook my head at him, though having a smile spread on my face nonetheless.

"He went nowhere near our sleeping forms, but walked to either end of the bed, searching our luggage as well as the desk-drawer," he pointed out the trail. "He is a heavy man," he added as an afterthought, mostly to himself. "With large feet," he finished, another glance directed my way.

"I'm happy you find it so amusing, Holmes," I muttered. "There still is a killer loose out there, and we might have come to harm, but if you wish to treat the matter as trivial, then I shan't stand in the way."

"My dear fellow," he said, sitting down opposite me at the small table as I had just taken a seat. "The matter is of crucial importance. However, he is not quite so desperate yet that he should take to violence in order of preventing our further interference."

I gave a small nod as there was a knock at the door, the maid entering with a tray smelling alluringly of eggs and sausage. It was not until the maid put the tray in front of us that the words he had just now uttered actually fell upon my ears with all their weight and I looked up at him. He observed me, at ease.

"Yet?" I repeated the object of my slight alarm.

He looked innocently uncomprehending, an act which had never managed to work its charm on me. I gave him a frightfully stern face, something which I had never managed to have working its threat on him but that for producing the smile I now got from him.

"There is no sign of danger as of this moment, Watson," he replied lightly. "Have some eggs."

It was not the first time we had been at peril in the company of the other, but this was a risky undertaking. Certainly a necessary one, but whomever we were dealing with was capable of a tremendous amount of physical force, and I had yet to understand the logic which told the brain that murder was a resort of any kind but that of pure lunacy. This, in turn, caused me fear, for I did not know what to make of our situation.

"I wish you would share some of your suspicions with me," I said.

Holmes, having just pierced a piece of a sausage, was observing it detachedly.

"They have not been fully exposed to _me_," he answered, putting the fork down without having touched what it contained. "When they are, you are the one with whom they will be shared," he added.

Seeing my disappointment he caught my gaze firmly, and once I smiled he returned it. I relaxed into the trust I held for my friend, reassured in the knowledge that he would not proceed if it posed any real hazard to either of us.

**H**

It was not often I got to bear witness to Holmes being charmed by a woman, but his regard for Lady Isabel seemed only to grow with every moment he spent with her. She carried all the traits I should think he would have appreciated in a woman. Her quiet nature was home to a fine set of artistic gifts, conversation being one which she mastered with amicable insight. Her respect for both Holmes and myself was very evident, and I suppose the leisure with which she inquired Holmes of his profession was enough to put him in a favourable state of mind. She seemed to have read everything I had ever written, and at times quoted to me from my own prose, something which I found both haunting in an unused sort of way, but also rather flattering. She was never nervous, but collected and soft-spoken, her smile sometimes directed at either of us as we discussed the simplicity of everyday, which always seems more palpable in the country. The excellent pot of tea, having been prepared for our arrival, was soon finished; Holmes having half a cup, a gesture which confirmed my thoughts on the matter of his personal acceptance of the lady.

"Have a biscuit," I prompted, pushing the plate towards him.

His grey eyes told me to leave it well alone, but I found it refreshing that he should find someone with such influence over him, so as to make him behave himself in a manner he, usually, only contrived when setting out on a course of gaining something he lacked.

"Come now," I pressed on, "they were really very good, old chap."

"Baked today," Lady Isabel smiled, lifting the plate a tad.

I could see how aware he was of my anticipating observance of him, and when he finally did reach out a hand to take one of the biscuits occupying the plate, I leaned back with a gleeful smile on my face, one which, dear reader, I could not have smothered even under his most deadly of stares.

How Sherlock Holmes, more often than not, lived on air, with substances abusing his body instead of nourishment being fed into it, and without the sleep I, as a doctor, would surely have subscribed anyone else, is still a medical mystery to me. At times I ask if it was all a scheme of his, an act he put on for me, to keep his character as elusive to me as to those who read my capturing of him in the Strand. His arrogance is still truly one of his more forward traits, but deception is not, and so I must deduce that he would not have drawn a blind before my eyes, and that, when caught in a case all that mattered was the case, and when out of a case, all that was left was a decrease of appetite and a bout of insomnia. My approving of his accepting this as any kind of lifestyle, he would never have, even as he day by day managed to keep his strength and exuberance somewhat intact.

But it was from this the glee came, watching him eat the biscuit and thoroughly enjoy it, I might add.

Perhaps his pallet was so sensitive that most food offended it. I had never prodded into the matter, and had the most stifling premonition of what would be the end result if ever I did; his amusement not being part of it.

"I am sorry that my children were not here to greet you," the lady apologised. "They went out early with their father and will not be back until later this afternoon. They had planned this little field trip for weeks and saw no use cancelling it. Lord knows we all need distraction from all that has taken place."

"Naturally," Holmes said.

"Amélie is arriving this evening," the lady said, Holmes and I exchanging a glance which told me how pleased this news made him. I had thought as much, as she had been described by him as the central point of the case. "She is bringing Matthew," Lady Isabel continued. "She wouldn't give me another reason for them coming than that they have not been to see us for such a long time, but I can feel there is more behind it. She never believed Ian was guilty, so it cannot be fear driving her out of London."

"Perhaps it is something deeper," Holmes mused, bringing his cigarette case out and opening it with familiar movements, taking a cigarette and tapping it twice against the lid before putting it between his lips. Lady Isabel looked wondering at him and he smiled a half smile, searching his pockets for his matches. "Curiosity," he clarified. I had produced my own match box and now struck one as he leaned forward, placing his hand on mine to steady it before drawing the proper glow from the fire between my fingers. Leaning back he blew out smoke in a soft, blue haze about his face. "Curiosity will bring the devil before God. It is what drives us to do unbidden things."

"Yes," she agreed. "I suppose it is so. And my daughter wishes to see this to the end."

Holmes granted her a smile of confirmation, tasting his cigarette and leaning his head back to seek rare enjoyment in the rays of the sun.

**H**

We spent the afternoon in interview with the servants. The house employed half a dozen maids, one housekeeper, one butler, one cook, three stable boys and one groundskeeper, who had made it a habit of also bringing in helping hands from the village. The grounds were never closed off to the villagers. They could fish in the streams and hunt game in the large forest, as long as they recorded their kills and captures.

None of the employees could recall having seen or heard anything out of the ordinary the day of Frederick Harrington's death.

When showing the pin we were told that it, indeed, had belonged to Mr Harrington. The cook, Mrs Dennison, said that it had been his most prized possession and that he had worn it in his hunting cap when walking out with the younger and elder master. Frederick had been raised by his uncle, Mr Shuffle, who had been the previous groundskeeper and gardener. When Mr Shuffle unexpectedly died, Frederick no more than four years old and without any relations, Lord Woodsworth had decided to let the boy stay under the care of Mr Herring, the current groundskeeper, who had then been but thirty, a bachelor, and mighty fond of the child. Frederick had developed his skill with fauna and had worked hard, had been well-liked for his humour and friendliness, and had gotten along with everyone in the house. His passing had been a shock to all, Mrs Dennison had professed, with the corner of her apron to one eye.

"Could anyone, in your mind, have sought to cause him harm?" Holmes had asked, her eyes widening.

"Why, yes, sir," she had answered. "That young fellow that he sent to jail. He had every reason to, didn't he? Revenge is a dreadful poison, Mr Holmes."

And tears filled her eyes again.

"With whom did Mr Harrington associate?" Holmes asked the butler, Mr Wilkes, an older gentleman of considerable manners.

"With some boys his age, from the village, but he was quite close with the young master," Mr Wilkes replied.

"They were friends?"

"Indeed, sir."

"And was he a friend of young Miss Josephine's as well?"

"I believe they never got to be as close friends as he and master Luc, but they have all grown up together and have gotten along as one should think."

"Thank you," Holmes gave a nod, Mr Wilkes rising and leaving.

Frederick Harrington's life had expired in the late afternoon, which was the time of day when the house usually was deserted. He had been found by Fee McAdams, the youngest of the maids, and she told tearfully of how horrendous it had been. Holmes listened with half an ear, his mind already skipping forward to the next point before the girl had finished speaking. He patted her hand, gave her a smile and sent her on her way. It was evident to me that he was growing frustrated.

"The possibilities are there," he murmured as Miss McAdams closed the door behind her. "None of the family members were anywhere to be seen, half the staff were on leave, a dozen villagers were working on clearing the western part of the forest. We have hands from a variety of people that could easily have done the deed. But to find the right pair before they deem fit to strike again."

"Do you believe he would do so blindly?"

"No," Holmes replied. "But to bury the secret ever deeper..." He met my gaze. "Tonight we must observe this house closely, Watson," he said, voice still low, filled with thought. "Any minor detail may serve as an arrow."

"As you have so often proven," I said, his eyes flashing to mine again before his mouth curled in a soft smile.

**H**

At a quarter past four, I put the newspaper I had been browsing down on the side table of the couch, which was placed in the middle of the large sitting room I was sole occupant of. The house was remarkable, infused with a grandeur which never got the better hand of taste. Its archways and niches, wide halls and hand-painted murals were all of a subtle luxury that made the large structure feel inhabited, and not as lonely as many other houses I had had the privilege of visiting.

The weather had changed, as it so often does, and clouds were mounting the sky with their bleak prospects. The wind had caught up with summer and was trying to chase her away, and though I knew the attempt was useless, I still mourned it, for it seemed a rare treat to have been granted such lovely conditions when the month of May was not yet late in her progress, and June was still allotted some time to prepare herself.

"What are you writing?" Holmes' voice asked, from where he had materialized I did not know. "Another fantastic exploration into the unconventional art of bending to your reader's every whim?" he added, a rather sardonic lilt to his tone.

"I was making a simple observation of the climate," I replied, looking up at him where he stood at my side.

"Waste of your time, in an hour it will have changed before it changes again," was all I got from him on that point as he moved around to take the seat beside me, placing one arm on the armrest and linking his fingers together as he observed me.

"I suppose you're right," I said, putting my notebook into the pocket I usually kept it, closing the cap of my pen.

At that moment rain began to patter heavily against the window panes of the room. We heard the front door open and both got to our feet. There was laughter, and as we entered the hall we saw the origin of it. The lord was drenched, and so were his two children. Lady Isabel had come to meet them from an adjoining room and she had a hand before her mouth, all four utterly amused by the appearance of the three. I felt my own mouth start to twitch in a wish to join in their mirth. The image of them was so relaxed and familiar, and the laughter seemed to do them such good, that I wanted to be a part of it. Holmes wore but a faint smile, his eyes all the more astute to the scene.

"Mr Holmes! Dr. Watson," the lord greeted, beginning to collect himself. "What terrible state we're in for this first meeting, but I should like to present my children."

Josephine was as pretty as her sister, though a little plainer. Her hair was fairer, bundled up on top of her head and her hairdo filled with fresh flowers. I gathered they had been put there by idle hands this very afternoon. She smiled at me, and even more brightly at Holmes, bending her knees in a beautiful curtsey.

"Dear sirs," she said, her eyes rising to Holmes' face and I understood right away how taken she was with him.

I suppressed a smile, unable to fairly trace the origin of my amusement but for the fact that he should be so cold toward a sex which he managed to warm with such effortlessness. He had never loved, he had told me, and even as this beautiful young specimen of a woman stood before him filled with clear adoration, he was unmoved. I still, after all this time, failed to see how he managed to be; and wondered if he even knew himself or if it was all a fluke of nature and his eccentric personality.

Luc was the very image of his father, though his eyes were his mother's. He carried more of a resemblance to Josephine, who seemed to be a mixture of both parents, than Amélie, who was influenced solely by her mother. He was not as tall as his father, and stood not at height with Holmes' gaze when he met it. He delivered an easy smile, taking my hand and then Holmes' in as firm a grip as his father.

"Very good of you to come," he said. "We hear great things about you, Mr Holmes," he added. "We are most grateful for your particular skill being put to use to solve the calamity we are in the very midst of."

"Yes," Holmes smiled slightly, his eyes drifting over the young man's face in such a subtle search that he would never have been detected, had I not known he had set out for a study and now would use every moment to devote himself to it.

Josephine had retrieved a basket which had been set on the floor. It was bursting with flowers, some of which I recognised as being used for medicinal purposes, some of which were herbs. She smiled at me, pulling out a daisy and handing it to me.

"And what flower is your favourite?" she asked Holmes, who had a momentary pause come over him before he glanced at mine.

"That one should do fine," he said.

I smiled as she gave him a different specimen of the referred flower and he accepted it with a somewhat quizzical air before watching her remove herself from sight. Luc and the lord walked upstairs, the lord calling for Wilkes to draw him a bath. Holmes observed the flower, and then turned his eyes in mine.

"I cannot see what would have you grinning, Watson," he muttered when noting my smile.

"Perhaps that is the reason for my grinning, Holmes," I replied and he rolled his eyes at me.

Affairs of the heart always had perplexed him, as well as I felt they fascinated him. They were in a realm of their own, one where he had never set foot, and where standing on the outer rim would never be enough to bring him answers. If he was even aware of asking questions I did not know, but I could see it on him when confronted by love, that looking it in the eye for a longer amount of time both did him good, and ill, and that in it there was sadness unexplained.

**Hello, dear readers! How nice it is to hear from you! Thanks to Velvet Green for both reviews! I'm so happy that you're liking the H&W interaction, and witches are fun, aren't they? :) And thanks to KCS - very nice to see you're still there, and thanks for the compliment! :) I hope you liked the chapter above!**

**Big hugs,**

**Annie.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"The rain seems heavier out here," Holmes grumbled as he entered my room an hour later.

By 'out here' I took he meant anywhere outside of London and so I readied myself for yet another ode to the dreariness of country life, the good mood he had enjoyed earlier in the day clearly having been drowned in the steady patter of droplets and the never ending expanses of lush green. No cobbles, no smoke and grind, nowhere to hectically run, I could see why he found it so very disagreeable.

I was dressing for dinner while he was already combed and composed, his suit having given way for the more traditional black coattails. He threw himself in a chair before sitting himself up, leaning back and putting a finger across his lips as his eyes declared the focus of his thoughts at a single topic of interest.

"It washes away things unwonted. And some things wanted," I remarked of the rain, pausing my fingers as they were buttoning the shirt I had put on and turning my eyes on Holmes. "You had no intention to scour for more leads, did you?"

He waved a hand with an impatient air.

"There is nothing more to find out there," he muttered and I finished the last button as he brought the pin out. "This belonged to Frederick Harrington," he murmured. "But Mrs Dennison said he only wore it in his hunting cap, and there was no hunting cap found at the scene. If it did not fall off the body of Frederick Harrington, then where did it come from? Did anyone else have it, and if so, why should they have something the man viewed as a treasure? Did he give it away or did someone steal it, and for what purpose?"

"Perhaps he gave it as a token of friendship; or as a lover's gift?"

"Yes, one would think," Holmes said, his eyes snapping to meet mine. "Naturally, there would not have been an attempt at stealing it if it did not carry some significance. It may even lead in a direction I am not yet willing to take."

I did not see his point and he smiled a little.

"The clover is the symbol of a country," he offered.

"Ireland," I finished the thought.

**H**

Amélie Woodsworth arrived half an hour before dinner was to be served. Matthew had fallen asleep in the carriage and was carried by an older lady wearing colours befitting a maid. He was half awake by the time they all stepped into the hall, but was blinking at the sight of his grandparents, as if wanting to place them and finding he could not. Lady Isabel smiled at him, kissing his fingers before she took him from the maid, hugging him tight. This clearly jerked the boy's memory, or made his shyness be forgotten, and he wrapped his arms around her.

"Mama," he said, the lady's smile widening.

"Mon chér," she mumbled.

"Hello, father," Miss Amélie greeted the lord, giving him a peck on the cheek.

There was no hostility in their meeting, and I drew from it the understanding that they had put the past behind them, and that Matthew was viewed as a true member of the family. Miss Amélie hugged her sister warmly before meeting the kiss she received from her brother with one cheek. She smiled at him and then Miss Josephine, taking one hand of each in both of hers.

"I do miss you," she said earnestly.

"No longer," Miss Josephine replied. "We are so happy you've come."

"As am I," Miss Amélie nodded, turning her gaze on our two foreign forms, standing as elusive décor to the side of the homecoming. "Mr Holmes," she said with a bright smile. "Dr Watson." We both nodded our greeting. "Father, you must not think I had no faith in how the situation was handled," she began, but the lord put one hand up, silencing her.

"I should have thought of it myself," he said. "But you always were one step ahead of me."

"Oh, no; if it was so, many of the things marring our lives would not have been permitted to take place," she disagreed softly. "Caroline," she said, turning to her maid and asking her to help bring the suitcases to their rooms and begin unpacking.

Caroline curtsied and did as she had been requested.

Lady Isabel had brought Matthew with her into the drawing-room, which we had all occupied before the travellers arrived. She took a seat with him on one of the couches. They had engaged themselves in conversation concerning his achievements as a scholar, which seemed to be vast enough to span learning the proper names of all the letters of which his name consisted, as well as listening to his mother reading to him stories of the brothers Grimm.

"You must tell us of all the gossip from London," I overheard Miss Josephine say as she walked passed Holmes and me, her arm in her sister's.

"Yes, we do implore you," master Luc agreed with an air telling of his little interest for the subject.

Miss Amélie laughed, they all having a seat by one of the tall windows. Outside the rain fell in sheets of wet, obliterating the setting sun and obscuring the twilight into shades of grey. It made the house, and the warmth of the fires having been lit in the fairly sized fireplaces, feel like nothing short of a haven.

Holmes and I had a seat on one of the couches, my mouth about to part to tell Holmes of my observations on our current accommodations when a slight voice interrupted me.

"Mr Holmes, sir," it said and Holmes turned his head in a birdlike manner, with the smallest jerk of wonder, toward the sound. Little Matthew looked at him quite the same way Miss Josephine had, but this was the awe of a young boy having undoubtedly heard of some of Sherlock Holmes' escapades.

"What is it?" Holmes inquired gently.

"Would you tell me a story?" the boy asked, and before Holmes even had time to reply, the child had decidedly crept onto his lap, leaning against him with his face turned up to his with an expression which all children possess when expecting something they've wished for; a blend of hope and fear and excitement, and at times that lingering countenance of patience and impatience all bundled together.

"I don't believe I know any stories that would amuse you," Holmes said, but Matthew smiled.

"You know tons and tons of them, I _know_ it. You must!" Holmes arched an eyebrow at that, about to argue that point, I was fairly certain, but the boy would not let him as he proceeded: "I'd like to hear one I haven't heard already, so you can pick."

The last sentence sounded as though a great honour was being bestowed upon my friend and he glanced briefly at me, receiving but a shrug for his effort as I could not guide him in the matter. He eyed the boy for another few moments before he said:

"Have you ever heard of the witch in Cowering Forest?"

"It's not _Cowering_, it's _Coveted_!" Matthew interjected.

"No," Holmes replied, "in my story the forest is called Cowering; but you are right in it sounding quite similar to the name of your forest."

Matthew nodded ambiguously.

"Well, then; _have_ you ever heard of the witch in Cowering Forest?"

Matthew shook his head, and I could just about see his ears perking. The younger people of our humble flock ceased their discussion, all of them turning their heads our way. I saw the lord gently take one of Lady Isabel's hands in his and she smiled a little at him, shaking her head in the slightest, making me think the lord was worried of the propriety of a tale of such subject before Matthew's bedtime, and the lady reassuring him it was all right.

And it truly was, for Holmes proceeded with delving into a story riddled with sinister humour. It was a tale of true friendship, of battling evil and conquering it. The evil was fear, and the witch non-existent at the end, which did not surprise me. What did surprise me was Holmes' excellent telling language; and that, I suppose, I should have expected from a man with an imagination so vivid it sometimes threatened to take over his entire existence, and not just the parts it had already claimed.

When Holmes finished, Matthew smiled widely at him.

"That was very, very good," he said.

"You enjoyed it, then?"

"I enjoyed it very much, thank you, Mr Holmes."

Holmes smiled a slight smile as the boy scooted off his knee and jumped to the floor.

"Indeed, you handled that quite well," I commented and his eyes turned in mine, the smile lingering. "I am beginning to wonder why you have not fathered any children of your own."

At that his smile widened before it died quite suddenly, his face growing serious as he observed me for a moment and then turned his gaze away.

"I should ask you the same," he murmured.

"I did not mean to..." I began, feeling as though I had made an error which had scarred him, but he shook his head in order to stop my sentence, looking at me once again.

"Had I the lady I would have the child," he said slowly. "But as there is no lady..."

He smiled a small smile again, rising to his feet as the butler entered, announcing that dinner was served. I followed his movement and together we walked into the dining room.

His melancholy at times perplexed me. He seemed quite content in the life he led, and the contempt he usually held for the fairer sex had quite early on in our acquaintance told me that a Mrs Holmes was nowhere to be found. But when he was as he just had been, somehow burdened by it and showing it not so much with words, but with subtle action and the language of his body, it made me wonder if there was more to it, and if I was ever to know if there were.

Before my mind was set to dwelling on the matter, however, Lady Isabel started up the conversation around the table and I was once more part of our small, but sufficient, unit.

The evening went by in a quiet pace; the dinner being devoured with many exclamations of its superb consistence, the brandy being shared in the sitting room and afterwards the party dividing into groups of choice. Lady Isabel sat down at the piano forte, not for our amusement, but her own. Lord Woodsworth took a seat with Holmes and me before the fire, while the three younger people sat together at a table, playing a game of bridge.

Matthew had been put to bed after we had eaten, his delightful prattle having been cause for much merriment at the table.

Holmes lit a cigarette and as I could tell he was in no mood for idle conversation, I took it upon myself to speak with the lord of trivial matters. Holmes listened, as he surely was taking in every sound of the room, but I could tell his eyes glazing over with pleasure at certain parts of the Mozart piece drifting from the instrument close by, and at the precision and flow of Lady Isabel's playing.

**H**

Later that evening, in the confinement of the bedroom assigned to me, I sat nowhere near sleep, and decided to write a few lines. No more than half an hour can have passed with me so engaged, when I heard a soft noise. It was not more than a whimper, but as I began to listen for it, I could detect it quite easily. I put my pen down, extinguished the candle and drew my robe tighter around me before I walked up to my door. Cracking it open I peered into the darkened hallway outside. I saw a figure move passed and pulled my head back, tentatively waiting for a sign of having been spotted. None came. Putting my eye in the slit once more, I saw Miss Amélie push the door of Miss Josephine's bedroom open. Light fell across her form, and though I could only see her back, I thought it odd that, at this late hour, she was still fully dressed. I could distinctly hear Miss Josephine's sobs right before the door closed behind her sister.

**H**

The following morning I was making my way down the stairs to the front hall when I heard two voices speaking in rather upset tones. I halted my descent, indecisive of whether I should continue onward and venture to slip by unnoticed, or if I should simply retreat, when the subject of the argument caught my attention, and I could do nothing but listen in growing puzzlement.

Lord Woodsworth and Lady Isabel were to whom the voices belonged.

"I cannot believe such folly should be wilfully entertained, not by you, of all people," the lord said.

"It is not folly to want nothing higher than to put an end to all this death once and for all. Mr Holmes is a brilliant man, Charles..."

"I am quite aware of it!" he interrupted. "For God's sakes, Izzie, speak to your daughter, make her see reason. She cannot take the risk of... Can you not see him finding out all of it? Where will it leave us? I do wish you hadn't invited him to stay in this house."

"He is not without compassion," Lady Isabel replied softly. "He will not speak of it, were he ever to put the pieces together."

"I am not so sure," the lord murmured.

My brow carried deep creases as I carefully slipped down the last few steps and moved through the hall, walking through the door of the sitting room and closing it silently behind me. I felt quite rattled and headed up to the table hosting a selection of carafes, choosing the one containing bourbon and pouring me half a glass. Swallowing the liquid down I drew a deep breath and decided to find Holmes as soon as humanly possible.

I came across him in the library, where he was smoking, seated in one of the deep, leather armchairs. I sat down in the chair opposite him, eyeing him for a few moments. He seemed not very inclined to make due notice of me, lost in thought, but this was one time I saw it perfectly fit to disturb him, and I leaned forth.

"Holmes," I said, proceeding to tell him of what I had overheard.

He listened dutifully, a small smile very soon having begun to play with the corners of his mouth.

"Yes, indeed," he finally murmured once I had finished my account.

"Is that all you have to say on the matter?"

"What matter is that?"

I stared at him.

"Well, surely this must have something to do with the case!" I nearly exclaimed.

He simply smiled once more.

"We shall see," he answered softly.

I was reluctant to let go of the topic he obviously found it so easily to brush aside, but I understood he would not do so if something had hindered him, and I took it to mean it truly was of no real importance.

We moved onto discuss the events of the previous evening. I sensed that he was rather disappointed in me when I told him I had noticed nothing out of the ordinary, neither during dinner nor the time spent thereafter in the presence of the family members. Nothing spoke of tension between any two people, be it family or servants. Asking him what he had hoped I should have observed, he cocked one eyebrow.

"Far be it for me to _tell_ you," he replied, giving me the distinct notion that whatever it was should be blatantly obvious. "In any respect, I am still undecided," he added, clipping off any further dwelling on the point.

I told him of what I had seen last night; his eyes shifting from attentive to piercing as a new light quickly began to shine in them at the prospect, which I knew he felt had presented itself, of gaining another step towards the solving of this riddle.

"Watson, would you ask Miss Josephine to meet me in the sitting room?"

"And where am I to go once she is there?"

"Why, of _course_ you are to join us," he replied, quite exasperated, though I had to smirk, leaving him to find the girl in question.

I met Miss Amélie and master Luc as they – arm in arm – aimed to proceed passed me through the hall and out into the garden. They were laughing, clearly enjoying each other's company, and I remembered Miss Amélie telling me that it had been nearly six months since she had been home.

It had been at Christmas, but she had disclosed that summer was her favourite time at Ashley House. The serenity was of a different kind, one not found in London at this time of year, even when the city lacked much life as most of society left it for family estates scattered across the countryside. Christmas in London was a different matter all together, when the splendour of candle light and soft snow seemed to take away the sometimes cruel reality of residing in such a metropolis, and hush everything into the magic of the season. I had had to agree with her.

I searched for Miss Josephine for a good five minutes, but came up empty handed. I finally ran into Miss McAdams, who told me Miss Josephine had left early that morning for a walk through the woods. She usually did not come home until afternoon tea on a beautiful day like today, the girl added, and I thanked her.

"No luck?" Holmes inquired as I joined him in the library, alone, and I shook my head, though I knew it was unnecessary.

His question had been, as many of his questions were, a statement of observation.

"Let's join the others outside," I said.

After a long look from him he rose, following me as I walked into the sitting room and out through the high glass windows, most of them standing open for the gentleness of the morning breeze. It truly was the beginning of a glorious day, and I felt my senses invigorated by it. Holmes, on the other hand, puffed smoke as though he found it all rather trite.

Lady Isabel was sitting on a chair, which was part of a collection of lawn furniture standing in the shade of a great oak. Lady Amélie was seated on a blanket spread in the grass nearby and Luc and Matthew were running around, playing what looked like it was supposed to be hide-and-seek. Though it seemed they were both seeking, as they – laughing – ran around the wide trunk of the ancient tree guarding them from the harshness of the sun.

"Mr Holmes, Dr Watson; good morning," Lady Isabel greeted, gesturing for us to choose our preferred spot.

Holmes sat down in the chair closest to her, asking her of why the lord was absent and having her tell him that her husband had been called to Town, and would be back later that evening. I sat down next to Holmes, observing Luc and Matthew with a smile, which widened as my eyes caught in Miss Amélie's.

"Would you like a strawberry, Dr Watson?" she asked.

"Why, yes, thank you," I nodded, getting to my feet to procure one from the basket she was holding up to me. "Holmes," I added, looking back at my friend. "Strawberry?"

He waved a hand of non-interest, turning back to Lady Isabel.

"You should take his, then, Doctor," Miss Amélie said with another smile. "Once Matthew gets started he seldom stops until they are all gone."

I grabbed another strawberry at once, and the lady smiled warmly. I bowed slightly in thanks before I returned to my seat.

"Have a strawberry," I said, handing Holmes his part of the collected summer treasure.

He frowned at it, but grasped its small green leaves and brought it to his mouth, biting the whole bit of fruit off and chewing it as he threw what was left over one shoulder. I smiled at his manner, enjoying the few bites of what was left of mine.

Luc collapsed onto the blanket.

"Your son is a born rascal!" he said, Matthew giggling as he sunk down on the blanket as well, immediately diving for the strawberries.

"You are teaching him every trick you know, you brute," Miss Amélie chided in good humour.

"Uncle, watch this!" Matthew said, bringing out his slingshot from one pocket and picking up a small rock.

Aiming with care he let the rock go and it hit the branch it had been intended for with a low popping noise.

"Excellent!" Luc said. "You're getting quite good."

"I practise every day," Matthew stated proudly.

"Good man," Luc smiled, taking a strawberry and swallowing half of it before bringing it to Amélie's mouth.

She took a bite, watching as Matthew got to his feet.

"I'll run and hide, and you count," he said, Luc dutifully placing one hand across his eyes, still chewing his strawberry. "Mr Holmes," the boy added. Holmes put his discussion with Lady Isabel on pause to turn his eyes in Matthew's. "Want to play?"

"Some other time, Matthew," Lady Isabel replied in Holmes' stead. "Mr Holmes and I are talking."

"Oh," Matthew muttered. "Would you like to, Doctor?"

I considered it; then got to my feet, making the boy leap for joy before treading one hand in one of mine.

"I know the _best_ hiding place," he boasted.

Off we went to a cluster of small bushes. They were in eye-sight of the spot we had just left and as we walked around it to hunch down, Matthew said:

"See, he'll think we'll have run as far as possible to hide, so it'll take him twice as long to find us."

"Ah, I see," I nodded.

"One hundred," I heard Luc call and through the branches I saw him sit up, looking around. "Where can they have gone," he added for good measure, rising to his feet. "Dear sister," he said with a bow, "would you accompany me in my dire quest?"

"I am sorry, sir," she answered him. "Regretfully I must admit to being much too easily frightened for such an adventure."

Luc smiled a little, granting her another bow before he headed off in search of us. Matthew put both hands over his mouth; keeping down a giggle as his uncle walked right passed us and continued further into the garden.

"Told you," the boy then smiled with his whole face, and I returned it.

"You're one clever chap," I commended.

"Hah-hah!" Luc's voice rang out behind us and Matthew gave a squeal before running around the bushes, Luc on his heel.

I straightened up, brushing off the grass stuck to my trousers as I came forth as well. Luc was swinging Matthew high in he air before they both landed back on the blanket, laughing. Miss Amélie turned her blue eyes in mine with her appreciation for my part of the play quite clear.

"Matthew, won't you offer the good doctor another strawberry?" she said and Matthew grabbed one, coming up to me with it and placing it in my hand.

"Next time _you_ can count," he said and I laughed.

"I should enjoy that," I replied.

I took my previous seat, noting that Lady Isabel was missing from the group. Holmes met my questioning gaze.

"She went to consult cook about dinner," he said. "Household matters," he added with a bored air and I smiled.

"Would you rather play?" I asked.

"I am quite content where I am now positioned," he replied. "It cultivates certain perfection for the watchful eye."

I smirked.

"Not even when surrounded by the freshness of such a morning as this, does your mind relieve you for a moment," I remarked.

"I should be so grateful," he said. "Or I would be jaded to leave here at once."

"Oh, I've no doubt," I agreed, eating my strawberry. "Pleasure is as private as the pearl to an oyster," I added. "I should not dream of prying you open to partake in some of mine."

"Watson, I am breathing the air, I am sitting leisurely, I am partaking."

I smiled, leaving him to walk up to Miss Amélie, coming back and placing what I had retrieved before him on the table.

"Then have another strawberry," I encouraged as I retook my seat.

**Hello KCS and Velvet Green! Thanks so much for the reviews! For KCS – So lovely to read all that positivity! Thank you! Wonderful compliments, my friend, I'm happy you like it! And the "keeping it in character" comment is priceless to me! Thanks again! For velvet green – I'm so happy you're still with the like. Thanks so much for your compliments! Yay, all happy! ) **

**Hope this latest installment was to your liking!**

**x's**

**Annie.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"Yes, but it seems it is of little to no consequence. The truth is a democracy cannot function without laws being obeyed, and there will always be those inapt to bring themselves to obey them," Lady Isabel stated. "You should be most aware of this, Mr Holmes. Surely the crimes you frequently deal with are mere proof to my sentiments being correct in nature."

"I cannot dispute you," he agreed silently.

"Until humanity can find peace in being simply peaceful, democracy will not function fully. There always will be a lower shift and a top shift and this will stir annoyance and disgruntlement, and it pains me."

"But mama," Miss Amélie broke in, "you cannot mean that those born poor should simply accept their station in life?"

"Of course not," Lady Isabel replied. "But until they can reconcile with the fact that their poverty has nothing to do with our being of money, that our wealth has not caused them to have nothing, until the day they will not blame us, our society will be divided and democracy cannot work if the country is perpetually pitted against one another."

"I believe you're right, mother," Luc nodded.

The sun stood high, but the branches still above us worked as perfect shelter from its heat, and I found myself relaxed and enjoying myself. I realized that the official capacity which had brought me into the midst of this quiet morning had slipped my mind completely. My friend would surely be appalled had he known and I pulled myself up a little in my chair, squaring my shoulders and beginning to pay a larger attention to the little things.

Truth be told, there were only little things to notice, a bird leaving the branch it had been perching on, the rustle of the soft winds through the canopy of leaves above, the soft chirping of a cricket in some hidden blade of grass, and so it was difficult to decide upon which to focus.

"Jo!" Luc suddenly yelled, getting to his feet. "Jo!"

"Luc, please, do not shout," Lady Isabel instructed gently.

Miss Josephine was indeed walking across the lawn, but she seemed to not hear as she continued to the front of the house, disappearing from view.

"I wished her to join us," Luc muttered, lying back down on the blanket. "It is so seldom we get to spend time together, like we used to when we were little," he added with a smile up at his sister, who returned it.

"It is merely because we had to grow up, Luc," she replied softly and his smile faded with a sigh.

"Don't speak of it," he muttered; her smile widening.

I turned my eyes in Holmes', finding them waiting for my gaze. His was filled with meaning and I did know what he wanted. We sat for another quarter of an hour and then Miss Amélie rose to her feet.

"Where are you going?" Luc asked, playfully grabbing the hem of her skirt.

"For a walk," she laughed.

"Off on another one of your little explorations?" her mother smiled. "You must have scoured the whole of the forest by now."

"No, mother," Miss Amélie smiled. "No more than half, to be sure."

"Can I come this time?" Matthew asked, and she eyed him for a few seconds, seeming indecisive before she nodded, reaching out a hand to him.

"And what of me, can I come?" Luc asked and Miss Amélie smiled tenderly.

"I want to speak with my son," she said and he seemed to understand because he urged the matter no further.

"I saw a collection of Byron poetry in the library," Holmes now stated and Lady Isabel nodded.

"My husband harbours a tendency to favour the works of the lord in question," she replied. "Would you like to see it?"

"If I may," Holmes said.

"Why, of course. Tell Mr Wilkins to open the cabinet for you."

Holmes, who had risen, bowed his head in thanks, turning to me.

"Watson, you ought to see the collection as well. I should not forgive myself were you to miss it."

I blinked at the forthright query. I had thought I was to find some excuse of my own.

"Indeed, Holmes, I should not like to distress you."

He smiled vaguely, leading the way across the grass. I took my leave of the rest of the company before Holmes' long strides had me in a rush to catch up with him.

"You wish me to fetch Miss Josephine," I said.

"Indeed."

"And Lord Byron?"

"I believe he is quite dead, Watson."

I gave him a look and he smirked.

"There is nothing of Lord Byron that I do not already know, it can wait. The matter present is a great deal more pressing."

"And why is that?"

"You are very soon to find out."

**H**

Eight minutes later I was about to give up my search of Miss Josephine when I happened upon Miss McAdams, and upon asking her if she had seen Miss Josephine, she told me her mistress was in the kitchen, the one place I had not even thought to check. I followed the maid down a set of stairs, through a narrow hallway and into a large, comfortable kitchen, filled with the lingering scents of baked biscuits and the newer ones of something brewing. It was an earthy, spicy smell entangled with the sweetness of flowers.

At one of the large wooden counters, Miss Josephine was crushing herbs with her fingertips, strewing them into a pot. She grabbed a wooden spoon and stirred the dish just as she spotted me and smiled.

"Doctor!" she greeted.

"Good afternoon," I replied. "I didn't mean to bother you. It smells wonderful."

"Thank you, and there is no bother," she shook her head, pulling the pot off the stove and cleaning her hands on the apron she was wearing.

"I did not know you enjoyed cooking," I said, her eyes in mine for a second before her smile was back.

"I enjoy it very much," she confirmed. "The scents are never as fresh as when you put them into a stew or a soup. They encircle you. They can even be intoxicatingly sensual, in ways. Being everywhere at once, mixing and mingling, filling you up with promises of true taste sensations."

I stared at her and she laughed.

"I am not embarrassing you, am I?" she asked. "I always have been a little too passionate of my vocation. Papa says so all the time. But you did not come here to speak of that. What can I do for you?"

I quickly found my head, feeling as though it was filled with the petals of jasmine and rosemary.

"Mr Holmes would like to speak with you," I said.

"What of?"

"I would answer you if I could," I smiled and she giggled, taking off the apron and throwing it aside carelessly before she ran ahead of me. "He is waiting in the library!" I called after her.

When I arrived through the wide doorway I heard her say:

"I saw you once, hurrying down Oxford Street, and though I had only seen a drawing of you, and you were only visible for a moment or so, I knew it was you."

"How did you know it was I and not any random man? London is quite full of them," Holmes asked, his tone a little sharper than I thought necessary, though I did know he felt uncomfortable being cornered, and Miss Josephine was cornering him as none other had before.

Her hand rested lightly on his arm, her frame was turned toward him where they stood before the cold fireplace, and her face was lifted so that she could look upon him with ardent admiration, making her look older than her years.

"I knew it was you from how your friend describes you," she said and he looked perplexed for one second before his eyes moved from her expression and to me, coming into the room. "He writes most eloquently of all your traits."

Holmes clearly disagreed, his gaze once more in mine and the sarcasm it carried made me smile in spite of its insult for my craft. He smiled quickly as well, moving away from the girl's touch and coming around the table as I had a seat on the couch. He took the vacancy next to me, stiffening ever so slightly when Miss Josephine didn't hesitate to sit down beside him.

"My favourite mystery is the one figuring Lady Carfax," she said. "I find it so lonely and sorrowful and yet so filled with hope. I have read it all about eight times already, and intend to read it again and again."

"Indeed," Holmes murmured. "It was a case most vexing."

She looked regretful, her hand on his arm once more.

"Oh, I am sorry. Of course it would be different having lived it. I meant no disregard."

"I brought you here to ask you a question," Holmes said, leaving the topic of old in favour for the new. She settled, awaiting his query. He lifted the lapel of his jacket, removing what he kept there with ease before holding it up in front of her. "Do you...?" he began, only her eyes had widened and a smile soon followed to brighten her features, and interrupting him she exclaimed:

"Oh, wherever did you find it?!"

Her fingers reached out and took it from his grasp, eyeing it with unhidden joy and touching it quite lovingly. Holmes turned his head to me and I gave him the expectant look he had searched for before he met Miss Josephine's eyes again, all within a very short second's time.

"You recognise this item?" he asked.

"I thought I had lost it," she replied, but suddenly her smile faded, her cheeks turned quite pale and she looked frightfully from Holmes to me to Holmes. "Oh, dear," she said faintly. "What a blunder."

"Blunder, Miss Josephine?" Holmes asked; his voice sharp enough to cut through the sudden thickness of the air around us.

"My father... He doesn't know."

I frowned, but then I caught up to what she meant.

"You were in love with Frederick Harrison," Holmes stated the following moment. "And he with you?"

She nodded, looking up at him.

"But I couldn't tell my father. He had the most awful fit over Amy's devotion to Ian, and if he learned of mine... I was fearful he would send Frederick away. I couldn't allow it, this was his home; it was all he knew. So we vowed to keep our love a secret, and he gave me this pin. I wore it always, out of sight, but near my heart. Then, a few days ago, it was nowhere to be found. Where did you find it?"

"At the place of Frederick's murder," Holmes replied, gently taking the item from her fingers as they began to tremble.

"Mr Holmes, you cannot think that I would ever have hurt him," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "I am destroyed by him being taken from me, I wouldn't..."

He placed a hand over hers, shaking his head ever so slightly.

"Please," she said, grabbing his hand in a tight grip. "I knew the moment you arrived that you would bring me peace, bring Frederick peace."

She moved her head forward, placing a kiss on Holmes' cheek before rising, leaving the room swiftly. I stared after her, unsure of whether I should applaud her gall, or be bewildered by it.

"For one having lost the man of her heart a mere few days ago, I could swear she has a rather good eye to someone else," I said, Holmes turning to eye me with disapproval.

"Really, Watson," he huffed.

I smiled.

"You lie if you say you hadn't noticed it yourself," I remarked.

"She is grieving," Holmes replied, his face solemn. "You turn to what you know. Solace is to be had in the mundane."

"I should hardly call you mundane," I remarked, receiving a look of amused rebuke as he got to his feet, fastening the pin where it had been before.

"We shall go to the village," he said, leaving the room in long strides.

I leaned back on the couch, his head popping back in through the doorway.

"_Now_, please, Watson," he urged and I rose as well.

**H**

Placing the pin had done nothing to still the thoughts running rampage through his brain. In fact, it seemed only to procure more intricate ways for them to twist and turn. His face was set and his jaw tight as we rode the handsome to the village. The air was scented with the sudden rain having just fallen, and the gathered clouds were still forebodingly hanging with a weight eager to be wasted. The temperature had dropped as the thunder had begun to roll its paths across the landscape, and it was quite cool.

We stepped into the smithy, where Michael Barnes, one of Frederick's friends, had procured a position. He came to speak with us smeared with soot and sweating from the fire. He was tall, built like an athlete with broad shoulders and thick arms. Holmes observed him in silence as the man had a seat on a stool. Holmes and I were standing.

"We have been told most of Frederick Harrington's duties and pleasures," Holmes said. "Now I wonder if you could be in the position of filling in some of the gaps."

"There were no gaps in Freddie's life," Mr Barnes replied. "He was at his happiest when he was murdered."

The last word came out harshly, angrily, and the man did look about ready to strike us both down for making him relive his sorrow. Holmes barely paid heed to his dark looks, continuing with:

"He had a fine position, lived with friends; had found a pretty girl to love. But..."

Holmes trailed off, eyes meeting those of Mr Barnes and after a short minute of eyeing each other, Mr Barnes was the one who broke away.

"But," Holmes repeated, silently. "There was something more."

"Freddie loved Jo... Miss Woodsworth," Mr Barnes began, his gaze now pleading. "You have to know it was nothing but a misstep on his part, what happened."

"What happened?" I asked.

"Bonnie Steadwell's what happened," Mr Barnes growled. "She'd been after him for some time and one night she found him after he'd fought with Jo and she managed to get him into bed. Went around telling everyone." He shook his head. "I don't even know if he got to have a word with Jo before he... before he passed."

"These events were recent?" Holmes said. "Watson, will you tell the driver to get the horses ready."

"We're leaving?"

"Yes. Thank you, Mr Barnes, you have been most helpful."

As we left the smithy I eyed my friend, knowing I was nowhere near the point of seeing the full and complex picture murder always painted, but feeling as though he had been given a vital place from where to gaze upon it, and that it now was beginning to make sense.

"Holmes," I said. "What of this Miss Steadwell, shouldn't we speak to her?"

"Of what?" he asked, climbing into the handsome as I signed for the driver that we indeed were headed back to Ashley House.

"Of... Frederick Harrington," I offered.

"And what is she to tell us? With what manner he approached her under the sheets?" he snapped, placing both hands on the handle of his cane and leaning forward.

"Holmes," I rebuked.

"She is of no significance," he murmured, not looking at me.

I left it at that, leaning back and observing him where he sat, his chin on his hands and his eyes on the world outside. Was he ever truly a part of it, or was he forever to reside just outside the sphere I inhabited?

**H**

We entered the hall and both slowed our step as we could hear the upset tones of Miss Josephine's voice.

"Do you have it? Do you?!" she exclaimed.

"Why, of course I do, calm yourself," master Luc's voice replied.

"I don't believe you," she stated, a sob following and moments later she walked through the doorway of the drawing-room.

She did not look our way as she rushed up the stairs.

Holmes walked in through the door by which she so dramatically had exited; one arm on his back and the appearance of complete oblivion.

"Good day," he greeted the young man.

"Good day, sir," Luc replied, his face still showing distraction. "I suppose you heard that," he added with a nod toward where his sister had disappeared. "Difficult not to," he added with a feeble smile, sinking down in a chair.

I sat on a couch while Holmes chose to stand.

"She seemed awfully distressed," I said.

"She is. I promised her I would retrieve a personal belonging of Frederick's, as she lost the pin he gave her, and I have yet to manage it."

"You told her you had," Holmes pointed out.

"Only to grant her some comfort. Mr Herring is rather impertinent on keeping most of Frederick's things for himself, and as I cannot tell him what it is for... well, you can imagine, I'm sure."

"What have you promised to get for her?" I asked.

"His hunting cap," Luc answered with another weary smile. "It was dear to him; and in such, dear to her. Hunting was one of the few things he did with both my father and me, and it meant a great deal to him," he explained further, his eyes suddenly welling up with tears and he stood, turning from us abruptly and walking up to one of the windows.

He saw something which made him quickly dry his cheeks and open it up. Miss Amélie soon stepped through it, a grateful smile directed at her brother.

"Thank you," she said. "I didn't wish to walk around simply to..." She stopped herself at the sight of us. "Oh, hello," she greeted, untying her bonnet and bringing it off her head. "Matthew and I just now got back. It is quite lovely outside."

"It is raining," Luc said.

"Only a drizzle," she replied. "It makes everything fresh again. Don't you agree?"

Holmes and I both nodded our heads and she smiled. Luc watched her as she walked out of the room, a slight frown on his forehead.

"There is lunch for you in the kitchen," he then informed us.

"We thank you," Holmes replied.

**H**

Upon entering the kitchen we were met by the sound of Lady Isabel's humming. She was standing mixing something in a large bowl with both hands and looked up as we entered. Giving us a smile she nodded to a table which contained the promised lunch. As I was starving I eagerly set to work on filling a plate.

"You should eat something, Holmes," I reprimanded when I saw he was not following my lead.

"Yes," he murmured, walking around to where Lady Isabel was occupied. "What is that?" he inquired.

"Ingredients," she replied.

"Ah," he said with a slight smile, eyeing her for a short moment before decidedly heading out of the room. "I shall have a bath, Watson. Come and see me when you are done."

I wanted to demand he stayed and ate his lunch, but he was not a child, and it was not my place, and so I let him go.

"I see from whom Miss Josephine has inherited her love for cooking," I said and Lady Isabel slowed her movements, staring at me for a second before she laughed, and though it was in a friendly manner, it somehow felt it carried a note I could not understand.

"Yes, I have nurtured her interest in it since she was quite young," the lady then replied, still smiling. "She has a natural flare for it, I must say."

"Your countrymen do have some of the more exotic dishes," I offered and she turned her head to me, her smile widening.

"Indeed, they do," she agreed.

"And has the art of creating with flavour and spices held you in its grasp for a long time as well, Lady Isabel?" I inquired.

"Yes," she answered. "My mother began teaching me when I was the same age Jo was when I began teaching her. It is something of a tradition in my family. I have been lucky, Doctor Watson, in falling in love with a good man, who did not mind his wife spending so much time in the kitchen, even though she did not need to."

"And blessed with a forgiving cook, I should think," I added and she laughed again.

**H**

Steam was still rising from the surface of the bath when I entered the room hosting Holmes, soaking in a small tub filled to the brim with what I could only assume to be scalding hot water. His eyes were closed and I took a tentative seat on a chair placed a few feet to the side of the tub. I watched him in the stillness, knowing he was not asleep.

Something had been on my mind, bothering it in the most persistent of ways, and I felt it a good enough time as any to voice it.

"As a friend I should be allowed to ask you a question," I finally spoke.

"As a friend you are allowed to ask me several," he replied.

"Are you smitten with Lady Isabel?"

His eyes opened so quickly it seemed the lids vanished into thin air, his gaze meeting mine as the soft beginning of a smile played in the corners of his mouth. He observed me so for a long minute, amusedly.

"My good man, are you quite serious?" he finally asked.

"Quite."

"She is a married woman!"

I merely held his gaze and he stared at me.

"Hah!" he then laughed, throwing his head back as the mirth took him over, the surface of the water moving with furious little waves until he settled, eyes back in mine. "My dear Watson, I am not smitten. I thought you knew me better than to ask such questions."

"One cannot decide whom to care for."

"Lady Isabel is a formidable specimen of feminine strength. She is well-equipped in every way. She fascinates me, I believe. If all women were like her there would be no need for smelling salts." I smiled and he returned it. "What would have you think me amorous in any way?"

"Details, Holmes," I answered with a wider smile.

"Ah, yes, but interpreted wrong, details can wreak all sorts of havoc," he said, raising one finger meaningfully. "Did you really think I should love her?"

"You are quite different around her, you know."

"Respect is the greatest gift we can bestow," he replied, closing his eyes again.

"And yet you wield it so carefully," I retorted and he smirked, giving me a reproachful glance.

"_Therefore_, Watson," he corrected. "_Therefore_."

**H**

Holmes joined me in the drawing-room a few hours later. He was subdued once more, wrapped in thought. I myself had trouble following the crooked road he treaded, wanting nothing higher than to be able to point to something which might make the journey somewhat easier for him; but I knew not what. He stood by the hearth, which had been brought to vivid life a few minutes before he stepped into the room.

"Did the bath warm you?" I asked in lack of anything better to say.

"What?" he said, looking at me before the question sunk in and he raised one hand in the air in a defeated gesture. "For the time it ensconced me," he answered with a slight smile. "Not much manages to warm me."

I saw sadness on him, but it disappeared and he took a seat beside me.

"Do you miss Mary?" he inquired, the suddenness of it, as her name rarely fell upon his lips, made me look at him in a way he must have taken as a reprove, for he grew regretful.

I quietened the expression with one hand hushing the words about to move over his tongue to take back the issue, and then I answered him "yes". He watched my face as I said the word.

"Do you believe there will ever be any other woman for you?"

"No."

"Even now?" he asked, and I knew he was referring to the years which had passed since her death.

I looked at him then, wondering where these queries had risen from.

"Even now," I replied.

"You will consign yourself to such loneliness?" he asked.

"As you have?"

"I?" he wondered, a small smile on his mouth.

"I'm not lonely," I stated and his gaze met mine, resting there for a while until he once more smiled a little, turning his eyes on the fire.

"Neither am I," he murmured, bringing his cigarette case out as he stood, opening it as I stood as well.

He placed the cigarette between his lips as I brought my match box out. He smiled in gratitude as I struck one of the slim wooden sticks, bringing it to the tip of his cigarette.

"Friendship is the best remedy," I said and he smirked quickly.

Looking over my shoulder his eyes caught on something and suddenly his face changed into the fierceness of realisation. He walked passed me, up to the piano forte, grabbing one of the framed pictures standing there. His gaze glided over it in an almost manic fashion, his eyes glittering with the doubtlessness of finality to the case.

"I cannot believe it," he murmured. "Watson," he said, waving me over.

I approached, stopping before him when there was a loud crash behind me and I saw Holmes' eyes widen right before an awful pain split through my skull and everything around me seeped into shadow as I lost consciousness.

**Dear friends!**

**Forgive my long absence, I have no good excuse but that of life coming in between! I hope you're all well! Thanks ever so much for your lovely feedback, I'm so very pleased that you all have been enjoying the story! I am posting the last two chapters today and hope they, too, will be to your satisfaction!**

_aragonite - thanks! I am trying to capture the sheer brilliance of that man, and to learn you feel I have succeeded makes me feel like a million bucks! (Not that I've ever been anywhere close to being made of paper or treated as currency, but you get my drift.) ;)_ **KCS - thank you! How nice is it not to read all this positivity! Truly, thank you! Haha, I did feel I wanted to put something a bit more light in there as well, I'm glad you liked the hide and seek. And yay, bewilderment is a very good response from you! ;)** _Velvet Green - oh, do you now? :D I'm so glad that you're still liking it and hope you'll like the ending! And another one liking the Watson moment. Nice! :) Thanks, my friend!_ **Pompey - man, that's so great to read! I'm so happy that you liked it! Thanks so much! And I do so hope you'll like what's about to finish it all off! :)** _Big hugs to everyone for leaving their thoughts, it is the food that keeps my mind and fingers working!_

**Hat's off,**

**love,**

**Annie.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

I felt two strong arms around me, supporting me as worried hands moved over my face, my hair and neck. And then there was a voice I recognised, and would so have, had it been among one hundred others. It kept saying my name, and I wondered what in Heaven's name was wrong, for there must be something amiss the way he was saying a word he very seldom used.

"John," at first it was soft and then it came stronger and stronger. "John!"

My eyelids were droopy, but they began to part and I could sense the anxiety lifting from him with one breath, his tight hold loosening instantly, as though the feat had taken all his energy out of him. I finally was able to look up at him. We were on the floor, but I was propped in his arms, my head on his left, and he was meeting my gaze with clear relief, his right hand supporting my cheek before he slowly brought it away.

"What on earth happened?" I asked, becoming alarmingly aware of the pain shooting from a point right above my neck.

"I shall soon find out," Holmes answered, his voice carrying such a threat in it as I had never before heard.

He was livid, helping me to sit up before getting to his feet, his movements harsh as he stalked up to the window. I saw the broken pane and didn't have to see Holmes search the floor to understand what it was that had caused me the injury now burning a hole in my head. I determined I had been in luck. Had the rock hit any higher it could have caused a more serious damage than simply knocking me to the floor. I felt nauseous, which was a sure sign of a concussion.

"The nerve!" Holmes kept muttering. "The nerve!"

"And with a slingshot?" I asked.

"The _nerve_!" Holmes exclaimed, coming up to me once more, holding up the rock he had found before my eyes and then placing it in one pocket, bending down to get me to my feet. "Come, you must rest."

"No," I objected.

"Oh, dear, what has happened here?" Lady Isabel's voice came from the doorway.

"He needs medical attention," Holmes replied as I felt myself begin to drift again.

Leaning – quite heavily, I'm afraid – against my friend I murmured there was nothing really the matter with me, but that they shouldn't let me fall asleep. Holmes shook me awake at my words.

"This won't do," he then stated. "You must lie down. Lady Isabel, will you ask Mr Wilkes to assist me in bringing my friend upstairs to his bedroom? Yes, quickly now."

**H**

"Watson!" Holmes said, making me open my eyes once more. "You mustn't," he added.

"What, with your pacing you expect me to feel at ease enough to fall asleep? You needn't worry, really."

He eyed me, and then gave a short laugh, coming up to sit at the edge of my bed.

A soft knock preceded Miss Josephine. She entered carrying a small mug, smiling at Holmes before she leaned over me, placing the mug at my lips.

"Drink," she encouraged. "It will help ease the pain."

I did as she asked, drinking the warm liquid down. It tasted sweetly of honey, but I could detect an undertone of tartness. I had only to wait a minute or two before the brew did as promised and my suffering began to ease. Miss Josephine smiled at my countenance, and I suppose it must have reflected the gratefulness I felt towards her.

"Your brother," Holmes said as she was leaving the room, making her pause to look back at him, "did he manage the task of retrieving Frederick's hunting cap?"

"What?" she asked, and then she laughed. "Oh, why, no," she answered. "Not yet."

Holmes smiled, watching her leave the room before he turned his eyes in mine.

"Are you feeling any better?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied slowly, seeing that he had something to ask of me.

"Excellent, Watson, for I shall need your help tonight."

"You mean to drag me out of my sickbed?"

"Oh, come, dear fellow. This night holds the key, and we must have it, Watson. We must."

"Why?"

"For our man is desperate enough now," he replied ominously. "Will you come with me?"

I observed him for a long moment, feeling that I would surely lose my mind lying within the confinement of my bedroom knowing that he was out there risking life and limb.

"When have I not?" I therefore retorted and he smiled widely.

"Good man," he said, taking my hand in a steady grip.

**H**

He had supper brought to my room, the tray holding all kinds of treats for me, but only one single boiled egg for him. Sitting cross legged in one of the armchairs, which he had unceremoniously pulled up to the bed, he watched me eat, peeling the shell off the egg with soft crackles and biting off half, chewing thoughtfully.

"There are forty-two firearms in this house," he said silently upon swallowing. "And yet our murderer chose a child's weapon. Quite brilliant."

"And painful," I muttered. He smiled his brief smile. "Perhaps the murderer could not get into the house," I grumbled.

Holmes' gaze intensified as he turned it in mine, compelling me to continue.

"I have noticed Miss Amélies pattern of taking long and short walks at every hour," I confessed. "It has made me come to a conclusion... That nature is not all that is pulling her away from the house." I paused, waiting for a negative huff from him, but it did not come. I had his undivided attention. "Ian Cavanaugh," I mumbled. "He is here."

"Excellent, Watson!" he said. "I believe he is."

"And this afternoon he met Matthew," I added, Holmes swallowing the last of his egg, stroking his palms together to get off leftover residue before he replied:

"Yes."

"And what is it we are doing tonight?" I wondered.

"We are following Miss Amélie," he answered. "She left the house last night and I believe she will do the same to-night."

Fifteen minutes later I turned down my lamp. The maid had been up to fetch my tray and though it was not yet late, preparations were being made for the rest of the occupants to retire to their rooms. Another fifteen minutes in complete silence and Holmes signed for me to get up. We walked up to the window and he brought the curtain aside. All was blackness.

"Watson," he said.

"Mh?" I replied, my nerves beginning to tingle with the anticipation of what to-night should bring.

"Are you sure you will manage?"

I smiled at this afterthought, a rarity with my friend, but a glimmering experience to take part in once it occurred.

"Quite, my dear fellow," I answered him. "Lead and I shall follow."

He gave my shoulder a squeeze before moving from the window up to the door. I had gotten my pistol and held it steady as he quietly slid the door open. We moved through it and he stopped me as we caught the sight of a figure disappearing down the stairs to our right.

"Was it her?" I hissed, Holmes raising one hand for me to stay quiet.

The figure gone from sight, we followed quickly. The carpet served as the perfect aid to keep our steps unheard as we crept down the stairs and through the narrow hall taking us to the kitchen. All was quiet, though light shone from under the closed door of the study and I took it the lord was going to make a night of it.

The kitchen exit closed softly just as we entered the room. Holmes put a finger to his lips and I gave a nod. We made our way across the floor, Holmes grabbing the heavy latch and lifting it slowly. Whoever was ahead of us was no longer in plain sight and once sure of this fact we moved outside, closing the door behind us.

Holmes gaze fastened on the shadows draping themselves between the trees and shrubbery of the lawn, his eyes narrowing.

"Come," he hissed, running forth with me not far behind.

I spotted the hooded figure not too far ahead of us as we rushed over the grass; the darkness of the forest swallowed it easily as it willingly proceeded in between its trees. Holmes was in front of me and for a second I was worried I would lose sight of him if he continued in the speed he was going, but upon entering the forest he slowed down and I caught up with him, trying to conceal the heaviness of my breath as he stood, straight-backed, and listened.

"Holmes," I whispered.

He put one hand up, once more bidding me to be silent.

"There," he then said, on the move the following instant.

The trunks surrounding us were like silver poles, their placement presenting larger and larger gaps between them, until sight was quite free and the timid moon attempted to share its light with us. Holmes halted, and I crashed into him, regaining my balance before peering at the spot upon which his eyes were locked. Miss Amélie stood with her back to us, her arms stretched above her head. She moved her hands to the hood and for a long minute did nothing before she let the cloak fall from her shoulders.

I immediately recognised that the lady before us was not Amélie Woodsworth, and so did Holmes for I heard a soft, but noticeable intake of breath. It was Josephine Woodsworth, her hair tumbling down her shoulders, the light nightgown she wore standing out with its bright white against the gloom of her backdrop. She raised her arms again.

"Mother!" she called, the sound making me jerk as the scene was splintered by such reality. "Mother, I pray to thee; help me!"

I took a step forward, but Holmes brought an arm in my way, stopping me.

"She is ill," I whispered.

"No," Holmes shook his head. "She is not ill."

Her form looked frail and small, and as she sunk down on her knees, curling in upon herself, I pushed passed Holmes and began to walk towards her.

"She is practising her faith," Holmes said and I slowed, turning towards him. "Leave her be."

"Her what?" I asked.

"She is a Wicca." He eyed me in wait for any response which would show my understanding immediately of what he was speaking, but none came, and he sighed. "I have written a rather extensive thesis on this matter, Watson. One which I take it you have yet to read." I had no idea of what he was getting at, but he soon enough spelled it out for me, and I was dumbfounded at the mere thought. "She is a witch," he simplified.

"You sound as though you already knew," I said, and I must admit to the allegation in my voice.

"Well, of course I knew. You do not conduct studies on a subject and not know; it is inconceivable."

"But..."

"Where is the other? This is most unfortunate, Watson. It may prove a fatal mistake on my part."

We both turned our heads when the sound of a scream echoed between the trees. It was high, not of beast but of woman, and I felt my heart begin to race with alarm. Another scream sounded, but we were already running.

"Faster," Holmes urged.

I felt as though my legs were bound to break themselves off the way they pounded into the ground, but the screams urged me on in a way Holmes himself could not. I thought we would run clear through the forest and almost expected the fields beyond it to expand, to grant air where there seemed to be none. The trees stood watchfully around us, their branches whispering of secrets they could never share, but had been forced to bear witness to. I feared another was transpiring at that very moment, and just as I was about to yell to Holmes that surely we were running in the wrong direction, I spotted them; three figures just a little ways ahead. Holmes had done so as well, for he was slowing as I was. We stopped, and I was not certain how to interpret the scene.

First of all, I realized there were not three, but four people before us. There only seemed to be three as two of them were standing so close together, melded with each other, a state which was apparently being enforced by the one's heavy hand resting upon the shoulder of the other. The formation was made up by Luc Woodsworth and young Matthew. Miss Amélie was standing a few meters away from them, her eyes horrified. I deduced it was from her the screams had emanated. A handsome, but slightly unkempt, fellow stood at arm's length behind the lady. He had brown-reddish hair, a days old beard, and a look in his eye as though he was ready to commit murder of the other man before him. I understood well enough that he was Ian Cavanaugh.

"Luc," Miss Amélie said, voice pleading as she reached her hands out in a gesture to coincide with her words. "Luc, let Matthew go."

"He's the only thing tying you to that... unworthy leach!" Woodsworth exclaimed.

I was completely taken aback by the rage and detest in his voice. His face contorted by something not far from pain, born from the disbelief I could also trace on his countenance. I began to understand.

"No," Miss Amélie shook her head slowly. "No, you know that is untrue. And it's Matthew you are threatening. It's Matthew," she said softly.

I heard the click of a cocking of a pistol, raising mine at the sound, but having Holmes give me a small gesture to keep still. The pistol in question was in Woodsworth's hand and he brought it to the temple of the boy, who became stiff as a board, staring at his mother. Miss Amélie had tears build in her eyes, her outstretched hands placing themselves at her bosom.

"Luc, what are you doing?" she whispered.

"He doesn't love you," Woodsworth hissed with a glance at Cavanaugh. "Not like I love you." Her tears ran over, a small crease in her brow, as her brother's face grew filled with ardent honesty. "There is nothing I would not do for you, Amy; can you not see how I burn? You are all I think of, all I care for. Nothing else matters to me. If ever it came to it, I would die for you."

"If it is so, then point that weapon at your own head," she said, voice strained with the emotions overwhelming her.

I heard footsteps approach and then Miss Josephine ran passed us before coming to a sudden halt at the sight of her brother and nephew. She was breathing heavily.

"It _was_ you," she said. "_You_ killed Frederick!"

And at that she moved forward, Luc's eyes widening as she thrust herself upon him, grabbing the arm holding the gun. He had to let Matthew go in order to fight her off and the boy ran straight into his mother's arms. Cavanaugh had gotten into the confrontation, and I was about to join in it as well, when their combined strength wrenched the gun away from the youth and Cavanaugh proceeded to push him harshly up against the trunk of a tree, pinning him to it.

"Make one move and I swear I shall gladly serve another seven years in prison to see you bleed," Cavanaugh warned.

Luc's eyes were frantic, his gaze going to Miss Amélie.

"Amy," he said softly. "Jo..." he added, but Miss Josephine had turned from him and refused to look at him, her face streaked with tears and wearing a mask of mourning unlike any I have ever seen.

As she seemed apt to sink to the ground, Holmes moved forward, his hands steadying her carefully. She looked up to meet his gaze for one long moment before she stepped into him, burying her face against his chest. His eyes were fastened on the forms of Luc and Cavanaugh, but one of his hands gingerly placed itself upon one of Miss Josephine's shoulders, offering gentle comfort.

"It is finished," Miss Amélie said silently, hugging her child tightly to her. "All of it is finished at last."

**H**

It was an odd tale Holmes laid out before us later that night. Lord Woodsworth had come to meet us, having spotted us from the study as we made our way across the lawn. His son had barely been able to look at him before being confined to his room, Mr Wilkes guarding the door and Mr Herring the window. Lady Isabel had woken and come down to learn what the fuss was all about, the colour of her cheeks paling within a few moments before she sat down on a chair.

Holmes waved to me to come with him and we walked up the stairs to speak to young Woodsworth.

"I wish to speak with my sister," were the first words out of his mouth.

"The lady does not wish to speak with you," Holmes replied, his voice carrying the sound of a whip in how shortly it clipped the words. "And you have foresworn all rights for demands with the first stroke of your hand. Tell me why you murdered young Jonas."

There was silence for a very long time, but as the oppression of it worked its way through Woodsworth's defences he finally looked up at Holmes with a desperate expression.

"It was an accident," he replied. "I was upset."

"For you had heard your sister and Ian Cavanaugh make up plans for the future."

Woodsworth nodded, his hands tightly clasping the arms of the chair he was seated in.

"This was cause for taking a life?" I asked.

"Jonas thought he knew me, knew how I felt about Amy, he made one jibe too many. I simply lost my temper."

"Yes," Holmes said in the least agreeing of ways as his eyes locked in the others.

"It was simple luck that Ian happened to have been on the grounds that very evening. I had seen him... So had Frederick."

"And you made your friend lie for you, placing Ian at the scene of the crime. And as you had the extra weight of Mr Harrington's love for your younger sister to add, it did not take a lot of convincing, I am sure."

"It wasn't a complete lie, you must see that. Ian _was_ there."

Holmes gave him a penetrating glance, and Woodsworth clamped his mouth shut, turning his eyes away.

"Why did you kill Frederick? Did he go back on his word?"

"He panicked when he realised Cavanaugh was being released. He said we were to go to the police and confess what we had done. He was deadly afraid of convicts, poor thing, and was certain that revenge would be sought. But..."

He trailed off.

"But you managed to persuade him," Holmes filled in, his voice booming. "He would not go to the police, as you told him it would break young Miss Josephine's heart to not only see her brother sent to the gallows, but the man she adored sent there as well. Obstructing of the due course of justice, are the words you, no doubt, used to convince him. Then you found out about Mr Harrington's little indiscretion with one Miss Steadwell, and what happened then is quite a bloody affair. Did you give Mr Harrington the opportunity to explain himself, or did you simply set out to bash his skull in?"

"I... I lost my temper," Woodsworth murmured.

"Yes," Holmes smiled coldly. "You lost your temper. You also made sure that Miss Amélie never visited Ian Cavanaugh in the prison. You intercepted the note your sister wrote, Mr Cavanaugh never even knew of its existence. You wrote the reply. You ensured that Matthew did not know his father and that his father did not know him. Stealing time is one of the worst crimes one can commit, and you stole bushels of it. Did it never occur to you what torment you were putting your sister through?"

"_I_ was there," Woodsworth replied defiantly.

"Indeed," Holmes smiled. "Teaching the boy all sorts of useful things; how to use a slingshot, for one."

My eyes widened involuntarily at that and I felt myself study the young man's face for a moment in utter hostility. Holmes noticed; a fleeting smile on his mouth before it turned to stone once more.

"The rock was meant for me, of course. You wanted the pin. Your father was the first one to tell you of it, but I am fairly certain it was an innocent mention in passing of how I had retrieved it."

"It was," Woodsworth interjected.

"You sent Michael Barnes to our room to steal it," Holmes proceeded.

"Barnes?" I said, Holmes granting me a glance and a nod before he said, eyes once more on Woodsworth:

"Whatever lie did you feed him to make him perform the task for you?"

Woodsworth looked for a moment as though he had been slapped, and then defeat overcame him.

"I told him it was for Jo. That she wished to have it more than anything, and that you would not give it to her. I said it was of no use to you as she had simply dropped it while walking through the forest. Mike knew how she loved that place, how much time she spent in it. He didn't need a lot of convincing."

"But he failed. You were without it still, and as we kept treading closer to the kernel of things, you felt you needed to rid yourself of such an incriminating piece of evidence. Having spoken with Miss Josephine earlier that day, she had told you where to find it – the inside of my lapel. I realised this was the true context of your argument as I noticed a picture you have standing on the piano forte downstairs. It is of you and Frederick. You are wearing your hunting gear; and identical pins in your hat-brims. This," he said, bringing the pin out from its place under his lapel, "is not Frederick's pin, but yours. That was why Miss Josephine was so upset, you could not produce what she demanded of you, and all amount of reassuring her you could did nothing to calm her when you could not show it to her on the spot."

"Why did she not tell us?" I asked, flabbergasted.

"She was confused, and torn, and unconvinced. A sister's love is a sister's love," Holmes murmured. "And a brother's love..."

He trailed off, observing Woodsworth once more in silence. It did not take as long for the young lord to begin to speak.

"I have loved Amy all my life, but I have known what abomination it is, to have it within my breast. I thought I could live with it, so long as she was near me, but when she met Ian she... We drifted apart, and she was happier than I had ever seen her. Mr Holmes, can you not understand, I should die if ever I lost her."

Tears sprung to his eyes, but Holmes was unmoved.

"She was never yours to lose," he said quietly.

We walked downstairs, rejoining the others and Holmes told them of what we had learned. The only one who cried copious amounts was Miss Josephine. Lord and Lady Woodsworth both sat ashen and shaken, while Miss Amélie held her sleeping son in her arms, her face set and expressionless. Ian Cavanaugh stayed close by her, but kept his distance with a watchful eye on her parents.

"Did you ever know?" Lady Isabel asked her daughter; and there was no accusation in her tone, only wonder.

"I had thought it might be so," Miss Amélie replied, her whole being suddenly looking very tired. "But I had never imagined it was this."

"When you wished us to come and see you," I asked, for this had been bothering me for some time, "why did you not come yourself?"

"I am not certain," she said, a small smile on her mouth. "I suppose a part of me was frightened that you would be followed by Ian, that he would find me, and that he would be taken from me once more. I wished to make sure he would not be, before I united him with his son. It was silly, I know that now. For Ian was here, waiting for me."

"How long have you had the puzzle completed, Mr Holmes?" the lord asked.

"Not very long," Holmes replied, "though I had the pieces rather clearly before me from the start. I admired some photos in your home the first night I met you," he said to Miss Amélie. "They were of you and your family, and in the ones with you and your brother I could detect a longing in his stance, a certain adoration in his gaze that felt overstepping the boundary one is used to stay within when looking upon a family member. I was not certain, of course, until I observed your interaction on your first evening here. He never left your side for long, and seemed only to smile when you did. I still was not convinced of this meaning anything other than his loving you, until he used the slingshot to try and harm me, harming my good friend instead."

"Yes," Miss Amélie said, giving me a regretful glance. "I am so terribly sorry."

"I am quite alright," I assured.

"It is such a gruesome business, all of it," Miss Amélie mumbled, stroking her cheek against Matthew's hair tenderly. "I cannot believe that Luc..."

She trailed off, her eyes in her mother's. Lady Isabel's hands were clutching one of her husbands. She looked frailer than I had thought to ever see her, but her voice was strangely forceful as she said:

"I am glad it is finished. I am glad for the family I have before me."

Miss Amélie's features lighted up a little at those words, and the stance of Cavanaugh grew instantly relaxed. His brow smoothed as he observed Lady Isabel, and I saw the faintest of smiles on her mouth, her gaze filled with regret.

"But, Mr Cavanaugh, if I may ask," I could not help myself, "the night of young Harrington's murder... Why were you on the premises? Miss Amélie told us that she had not seen you."

"I was going to try and see her," Cavanaugh said, his voice low. "But I changed my mind at the last minute. She was in her room, with her sister, and I found myself simply... looking at her for a little while. Making sure that she was alright. I then left, thinking I would have all of the to-morrows that were to follow, to convince her parents of my love for their daughter."

Miss Amélie looked up at him with great affection before she turned her eyes in my colleagues.

"I owe you a great deal, Mr Holmes," she said.

He smiled, taking her hand gently.

"Indeed you do not," he replied.

**H**

The following morning we bid adieu to Ashley House.

It was nice to see the old apartment again, and even Baker Street itself seemed quite pleasant to gaze down upon from the windows. London had lost none of its vigour and though we were both tired, it did do us some good to be home. We spent the afternoon at our own leisure, doing not much of anything. I finished the book by Conrad Downs, finding it rather a bore compared to what I had just lived, and instead picked up my pen to write down the latest instalment in my chronicles of Sherlock Holmes.

He smoked his favourite pipe, seated cross legged in his favourite chair, silent and still as he let his mind move at its own pace; which is to say rushing forth with new problems every few minutes, or so I believe. His sometimes sharp features were dulled by the smoke, and I wondered whatever could be moving within his skull.

Later that evening we sat by the fire, Holmes' legs stretched out before him and a contented look in his eyes.

"I believe the most surprising aspect of it, to me, was that there truly was a witch in Coveted forest," I said and he laughed out loud.

"I should think so," he agreed.

"Two, point of fact," I added.

"Like mother, like daughter," he said absentmindedly.

"But I cannot believe that such beautiful creatures should be part of something as dark as witchcraft."

"Oh, Watson," he muttered, his full attention back on me. "You have yet to read my thesis, and I insist upon you doing so."

"Oh, well, if you insist, Holmes."

"I do, quite vigorously. You are making assumptions. I abhor assumptions. You cannot speak upon a subject you have yet to fully grasp, Watson. You must read my thesis."

"I shall. I'm quite fascinated."

He gave me a small smile, sucking on his pipe.

"And what of master Woodsworth, the scoundrel," I picked up the conversation.

"What of the many things about him are you referring to?" Holmes muttered.

"Did you truly not know until such a late stage that he was the one guilty of the awful crimes committed?"

He held my gaze; then looked away, puffing out smoke.

"I was not convinced, Watson," he replied. "I could not speak of such blasphemy against the sanctity of family without being positively certain I was basing such accusations on fact, not even to you, my good friend."

"I understand," I said. Silence filled the room for a minute or two, my mind wandering off to a point I had myself been examining. "The force with which he murdered the boy and the young man must have been awesome. He is not spoken of as a fighter and one would draw the conclusion that he had not any training before hand. I do know that a blow delivered with precision does not necessarily need to be backed up by power, but that he should have been lucky twice? Frederick Harrington is said to have been no small man."

"But fighting someone you trust is an unfair disadvantage. I am certain that neither Jonas nor Frederick even saw that first blow coming. And once a man is fallen to the ground..."

"Yes," I mumbled, feeling the weight of the matter settle heavily in my chest. "There are a number of ways of keeping him there," I added as comment to Holmes' assessment, and he nodded.

He eyed me for a short moment before turning his eyes on the fire.

"I have been pondering a matter of some interest these past few days," he then said, his whole appearance suddenly casual and I grew curious at once. "It is one I think of seldom, and thus I thought it should be time I did so. Being in a household so filled with it, how can one not."

"Ah," I smiled, understanding of what he spoke. "Yes. Love."

"Quite so, I'm afraid," Holmes nodded. "It is a most indistinguishable constitution, is it not? It is most elusive in all its little quarks and oddities. It grabs at you when you least expect it to, or wish it to, causing all sorts of chaos. It wants nothing from you, yet for you to sacrifice everything at its very whim. It's a fickle, undecided, unshaped, and really a rather disturbing thing, which is slung into your heart, making it have to carry the largest burden you shall ever encounter. Is it not strange that even though it should breed nothing but hatred for its loathsome existence, you feel such gratitude when it is benign enough to grace your life with its most deceiving light?"

I kept down a smile.

"But you have never loved, you've said," I remarked and he eyed me for a moment, sucking his pipe before confirming my statement with:

"No, I would say I have not. I would say I am but an observer."

"And an apt one at that."

"Thank you, Watson. But in observing, one learns, and in learning one cannot help but understand. Understand the true nature of love, which is as difficult as grasping the need for the moon, but yet, to see the wonders of holding someone dearer than anyone else, of wanting nothing but their company and even nearness, because they make you feel as though you are better. Lord and Lady Woodsworth have that sort of love, Miss Amélie and Mr Cavanaugh have it and I believe Miss Josephine and Frederick Harrington had it. Where the thought of something happening to your better half is inconceivable and that it would hurt you ever so much more than if something was to happen to you. This adventure also made me see something else about love; about how you cannot make it a prisoner. How denying love will make you ill within, as it cannot be shut out. You said to me 'You cannot choose whom to care for'," he said, and I nodded as I remembered. "It is the very truth of love. Once you are able to face it, you can face anything, even yourself."

I was quite bewildered. He rarely spoke so fervently to me; and never about anything as distant from him as the greatest of all emotion.

"I believe you are correct," I said slowly.

He nodded, puffing out smoke, his face softening suddenly, his gaze leaving mine for the fire once more.

"It is not so strange then, to think that my deduction is and forever must be that the person whom I love best in this world is you."

I do not know how long I said nothing, or how quickly after he had said these words he moved his eyes to rest them in mine. For a while we sat simply looking at each other. I felt I was smiling, though it can barely have been perceivable, and I do not know why except for the recognition he had just given me.

I felt as though there was more, treading water beneath the surface of his words, but I did not, or dared not, try to fish for them.

His eyes, if nothing else, were returning my expression, before he rose and knocked his pipe against the fireplace, putting it where it belonged in its holder and walking up to his bedroom door.

"Sleep well, Holmes," I said and he paused for but a moment in the doorway before I heard it closing as he replied:

"And you, my dear Watson."

**H**

The next morning I entered our shared sitting-room quite early, having slept heavily, to then wake around six o'clock incapable of finding the way back to rest. I rose, dressed and decided to write a little. The door to Holmes' bedroom was closed and so I thought he should still be in it. If he wasn't out meandering or only God knew what. I was nearly pressed on to slide his door open ever so slightly and have a look, but I restrained it, thinking it would be too much of a violation and if I disturbed his well-needed rest I should not have any excuse. And so I set to work, sitting down at the desk.

At eight o'clock Mrs Hudson was so kind as to bring me a cup of coffee, as I had told her I would rather wait for my friend to rouse himself and share breakfast with him. Mrs Hudson returned a mere few minutes later, looking rather perturbed.

"Doctor Watson," she said. "There is a young lady asking to see you."

"Me?"

"And Mr Holmes."

"Did she leave a name?"

"Oh, yes, her name is Miss Woodsworth."

I could not hide my surprise, but I also felt a sweet pleasure at the thought of seeing Miss Amélie, I had found her very likable. Only after Mrs Hudson had gone to fetch the girl, it was not the older sister Woodsworth, but the younger that entered. She wore an apologetic smile.

"I am so terribly sorry to disturb you at such an early hour, Doctor," were her first words.

I shook my head, taking the hand she extended to me in both of mine.

"I was already awake," I reassured. "Won't you sit? Would you like a cup of tea?"

"No, thank you," she replied, sitting down as she removed her hat, beginning to pull off her gloves. "Is Mr Holmes awake as well?"

"I am not sure," I replied. "Having not yet seen him this morning, I would say that he shouldn't be. But..."

"You are not sure," she filled in with a brilliant smile, one which I returned with ease. "It is a dreadful pity, for I truly wished to speak to you both," she continued in earnest. "I wanted to thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for what you did. It is a great sin to have a brother who feels so much like a stranger; and to have the state of this dreadful feeling occur over one single night, but what he has done is the greatest sin of all. I am happy it was discovered, and that Frederick is avenged. You have brought me the peace I sought."

"I am happy for it," I gave a slight bow. "Now that you, by some fate's fortune, are here, there is something I did wish to ask you."

She observed me, a small smile on her mouth and a glitter of what I could only read as amusement in her eyes.

"You wish to know the ingredients of the tea I gave you," she said.

My eyebrows rose quite of their own accord and she did give the most enchanting giggle at the sight of my expression.

"I admit that I do, it was quite formidable for the pain, I must say," I finally answered, her smile lingering enchantingly. "But I also wanted to ask of how it came to be in your possession."

Miss Josephine arched one of her fine eyebrows.

"You mean to ask me in what way I was first introduced to the craft I practice. Are you astonished at it?"

"I am more a curious old man, inquiring into things with which he has nothing to do. Forgive me."

"Doctor!" she exclaimed, her tone filled with good-humour. "You have no need to ask my forgiveness. You are a saviour, and as such a Lord, and as such there is nothing with which you have not to do, and so I shall gladly answer any query you may have. Starting with your first. My mother brought knowledge of the craft with her from France, where natural witches have been in her bloodline for ever. At least if you are to believe her."

She smiled ruefully, meeting my gaze more steadily than I was meeting hers. Her presence was suddenly very strong, and it was to linger even after she had left. I realized in that moment that whatever I had thought I knew of magic was fantasies, and that what now surrounded me, and sat with me, was not heresy, was not a fawn sent by the devil, but strength and light and for a moment I thought I felt the breath of the generations swirl against my cheek. Those to have gone before her, those to come after her, granting me their blessing, in some form or other. I accepted it with gratitude, finding it the only thing I could do.

"I am the only one to have the inclination for it; Amélie never showed any signs of having any natural ability at all," Miss Josephine continued. "My mother always wished it, but it was not to be. I'm certain I make her proud, though. Sometimes too much so, perhaps." I knew I looked wondering, for she quickly elaborated. "I cannot help but sneak out sometimes at night. The moon has a strange attraction to me, her light upon my skin makes it vibrate, and I believe I have fed into an old legend of the forest being haunted."

"By a witch."

"Yes," she suddenly smirked. "Such nonsense, really. But most of the villagers have lived too long in the area to pay any attention to those who speak of it."

"No, I had noticed that," I nodded. "But it must be unsettling for your parents. Your father?"

"It is, and I do not venture out as much as I once did for fear of being recognized. Father is quite adamant about my staying inside, but then, he always has been."

"He must be a very understanding man," I murmured.

"He is a very loving man," she said. "I suppose love breeds understanding."

For a moment her words brought the words Holmes had spoken the previous night into my mind, but then she interrupted them by saying:

"Oh, I almost forgot."

Upon which she produced from the fold of her jacket sleeve, a letter.

"My sister asked me to bring this to you," she explained as I took it from her.

"I thank you, as does Holmes," I said.

"I must be off." She stood, replacing her hat and pulling on her gloves. "Thank you for seeing me."

"My pleasure, Miss Woodsworth, I assure you," I replied.

"And would you tell Mr Holmes," she began, trailing off with a soft expression of thoughtfulness on her face. "Tell him I believe him to be a true gentleman, and that I shall measure the breed after his stature from now on," she stated grandly and I smiled, giving a nod.

She moved towards the door when she stopped once again, turning her head to me briefly before adding:

"Tell him I shall think of him always with fondness."

"I shall tell him," I promised, watching her leave the room.

She already carried herself as a lady.

I sat down to read the letter. It was addressed to both Holmes and me, and so I saw no harm in opening it. It was a lovely letter, and I wanted Holmes to wake immediately so that I might show it to him. Mrs Hudson brought in a tray, setting the table for breakfast.

"If he isn't up by nine, he can drink his tea cold," was all she said when I remarked at the absence of my friend. "I have to run some errands," she added with a smile.

I smiled back, assuring her I would wake Holmes before the steam left the tea and she closed the door behind her as she retreated to from whence she'd come.

It only took a mere ten minutes for Holmes' bedroom door to glide open. His hair was ruffled, his face bleak, he looked quite tired.

"Ah, Holmes," I said, for greeting, picking up the sheet of paper resting beside my cup on the table.

"What time is it?" he muttered.

"Almost nine o'clock," I replied, waving the letter. "We have been written to by Amélie Woodsworth. Miss Josephine was here to deliver it, and to thank us in person. Of course, you were not present to accept her gratitude, but I did it for you. I believe she did wish to speak to you, though" I added with a slight smile. "She spoke of you as a true gentleman of which she shall mould all others from here on, and that she shall think of you with fondness. I was sad she did not get to tell you in person, I could tell she wanted to."

"Watson," he grumbled, waving a hand distractedly.

It being a bid for me to stop speaking of the matter was evident enough, and I conceded to do so with little hesitation, though I would have liked him to offer a more extensive comment than the weary breathing out of my name.

He glanced at the letter as he came up to sit opposite me at the table.

"Coffee?" I asked and he nodded, grabbing a piece of toast and taking a bite, chewing it as he observed me attentively.

I poured him a cup, refilled mine and retook my seat as I began to butter a scone.

"What does it say?" he asked.

"What does what say?"

"The _letter_ we have apparently received."

"Oh, yes, that."

I read it to him, but I have enclosed it in its full length into this text so that you may read it for yourself.

_Dear Mr Holmes,_

_Dear Dr Watson,_

_I write to you in happiness indescribable. I am now an engaged woman. As the wedding has been postponed for such a long time already, my parents both think it would be best if Ian and I are joined as a family no later than this Saturday. I cannot begin to tell you of the joy I feel._

_There is still so much sorrow in our house that I try not to show it too clearly, but at times I feel I cannot stop smiling and I owe it all to the both of you. Had you not arrived I am not sure what had happened. It is so strange to think that the smallest object, even one the size of a pin, can change so many lives. _

_Ian told me of a discovery he had made and I went immediately to confront my father, who confessed that it was indeed he, and not Ian's parents, who had paid for the solicitors. When it had looked as though they were about to fail, father had gone in person to speak with the judge and plead for Ian's case. Father said he could not bear to see me suffer through the hanging, nor did he want Matthew to live without a dad. _

_I believe he has lived with some regret all these years, over not allowing me the happiness allotted me, but it is now all in the past and I am grateful, to say the least, that the matter is resolved and the questions all answered _

_As for my brother, I can only say I shall never forgive him. He has broken up a family once stronger than I thought we ought to be. He has shown me the illusions of my past in a most cruel manner, and has shamed us all. He claims he loves me still, but I cannot hear him. He is already dead to me. If I sound harsh, it is harshness born from his shown selfishness in keeping me from my life for so long._

_Mr Holmes, Doctor – without you I would be only half a woman; even my son could not fill the place of my heart missing Ian. _

_And so I thank you and pray the Lord to bless you,_

_Sincerely,_

_Amy._

"Very nice of her, don't you agree?" I asked once I had finished, folding the letter away.

"Yes," he said, taking a mouthful of coffee and barely pausing before he added: "I believe I have the start of a new case on my hands."

I blinked.

"What?" I asked.

"I was walking through Bayswater last night and I happened across a man who..."

"Bayswater last night?" I stopped him, something which made him frown. "You mean to tell me you went to bed and then got up again?"

"Are you listening to a word I am saying, Watson? You must let me finish."

"How many hours of sleep have you gotten to-night?"

"I am quite refreshed."

"Holmes."

He reached over to a side table nearby, grabbing a thick file and tossing it before me. I stared at it, then at him.

"What is this?" I asked.

"It is my thesis on Witchcraft and the Occult. You ought to read it before noon. It shall come in handy for this present case."

I eyed him for a short moment, but had to smile widely at his incorrigible nature.

"Alright, dear fellow," I consented.

"Before noon," he repeated as he rose, walking up to the table hosting his violin and picking it up with an elegant movement, placing his chin in the cradle and readying his bow.

"I shall try my best," I assured, watching him let the music he created wrap itself around the room as the most formidable type of daydreaming.

His eyes were closed and I found myself studying him for many minutes, wondering if the music soothed him as much as it did me. I knew it undoubtedly spoke to the whole of his soul, but did it make him soar out of himself with the notes? What visions did it create in his angular mind, what doors did it open that otherwise were doomed to stay forever shut?

I brought out my notebook in a surreptitious manner, about to place the pen to the opened and blank sheet of paper when his voice stopped me. His playing had not ceased.

"Are you reading, Watson?" he asked.

I glanced at him, my pen still hovering in position.

"I am not," I admitted.

"What time is it now?"

"Twenty minutes past nine," I replied.

"This," he said, his music being interrupted by his bow leaving the strings to hit with aimed precision upon the top of the folder containing his thesis, landing there with a thwack, "is precisely two-hundred-and-forty-two pages long. If you were to read one page per minute from this minute until you were finished you would be done, when?"

"Holmes..."

"When?"

"Twenty minutes past one," I relented.

"Ah," he said with a small smile, his eyes turning in mine. "Twenty-_two_ minutes past one," he corrected with a click of his tongue, and I gave him a look which merely produced another sign of amusement upon his features before he brought the bow back to its original position. "You only have until noon," he repeated, letting the strings tell a softly mournful melody as he sauntered up to the window. "Better begin straight away."

"Can't you simply enlighten me?"

"It is what I am trying to do," he replied. "Now hush."

"I must be a very patient man," I muttered, and though I could not see his face, I simply knew he was smiling as I flipped to the first page and commenced reading.

I should say it was a most interesting study and I would recommend it to you. It is, however, the start of another case, and as such I believe I had better put the finishing thoughts down on this one.

Ashley House, with its foreboding history, still acted as something of a sanctuary for this tale. Its quiet halls and welcoming rooms made the danger feel less pressing, and the threat disguising itself among us it made into a well-known friend. I am sorry that the family Woodsworth now must face a very dark chapter of their lives, but I know that it was preceded by such calamity and sorrow that the last of which it is to consist, may feel like a release. It is, truly, finished at last.

As for Sherlock Holmes, he is, as always, the most formidable of men and I know he stands alone as the most fascinating and enigmatic person I have ever encountered.

I come to think of what he spoke of the evening this, now solved, mystery began. How we leave behind for the next generation, what the generation before us left behind for us; this cycle of life running its smooth, circular course, always ending up where it began; as with Lady Isabel and Miss Josephine and a family tradition passed on through the ages.

So, then, honourable reader, has there been other Sherlock Holmes' in the past? Will there be more in the future? One brilliant man to pave the way for new ways of thinking? I should hope so, though I fear it should be quite impossible for anyone to ever follow in the footsteps of his unsurpassed brilliance, charm and grace.

He is still waiting to be fully unravelled, and remains faithfully the truest puzzle of all. Each day he lets me glimpse but a part of him, each day enticing me all the more in this world in which he operates, making me make it my world.

Should I wish to leave it?

I fear the answer is bound eternally to be quite simply no.


End file.
